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20 Oexitis 


No. 717. 




Vol. 14. ><<'. 717. March 7, 1886. Annual Subscription, $30.00. 


COUNTRY 


GENTLEMAN 


MRS. OLIPHANT 

Author OF “THE LADIES LINDORES,” “THE 
LITTLE PILGRIM,” Etc., Rtc. 


Entered at the Post Oflfice, N. Y., as second-class matter. 
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“PAPA’S OWN GIRL” 

By Marie Howland. 


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TROW'8 

PIHRTIHQ and BOOKBINDINO OOMMNV, 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


By MRS. M. O. W. OLIPHANT. 

I. 

Theodore WaRRENDER was still at Oxford when his father 
died. He was a youth who had come up from his school with 
the highest hopes of what lie was to do at the university. It 
had indeed been laid out for him by an admiring tutor with 
anticipations which were almost certainties : “If you will 
only work as well as you have done these last two years ! ” These 
years had been spent in the dignified ranks of Sixth Form, 
where he had done almost everything that boy can do. It was 
expected that the School would have had a holiday when he 
and Brunson went up for the scholarships in their chosen 
college, and everybody calculated on the “ double event.” 
Brunson got the scholarship in question, but Wan-ender failed, 
which at first astonished everybody, but was afterwards more 
than accounted for by the fact that his fine and fastidious 
mind had been carried awa#^ by the Eschylus paper, which he 
made into an exhaustive analysis of the famous trilogy, to the 
neglect of other less inviting subjects. His tutor was thus 
almost more proud of him for Having failed than if he had 
succeeded, and Sixth Form in general accepted Bmnson’s 
success apologetically as that of an “all round” man, whose 
triumph did not mean so much. But if there is any place 
where the finer scholarship ought to tell, it should be in Ox- 
ford, and his school tutor, as has been said, laid out for him a 
sort of little map of what he was to do. There were the Hert- 
ford and the Ireland scholarships, almost as a matter of course ; 
a first in moderations, but that went without saying ; at least 
one of the Vice Chancellor’s prizes— probably the Newdigate, 
or some other un considered trifle of the kind ; anothei fiist 
class in Greats ; a fellowship. “If you don’t do more than 
this T will be disappointed in you,” the school tutor said. 

Tiie college tutors received Warrender with suppressed^en- 
thusiasm. with that excitement which the acquisition of a &.an 
who is likelv to distinguish himself (and his college) naturally 
calls forth. It was not long before they took his measure and 


G .4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. ^ 

decided that his school tutor was right. He liad it in him to 
bring glory and honor to their doors. They surrounded him 
with that genial warmth of incubation which brings a future 
first class tenderly to the top of the lists. Young AVaiTender 
was flattered, his heart was touched. He thought, with the 
credulity of youth, that the dons loved him for himself ; that 
it was because of the attractions of liis own noble nature that 
they vied with each other in breakfasting and dining him, in 
making him the companion of their refined and elevated pleas- 
ures. He thought, even, that the Rector, that* name of feai*, 
had at last found in himself the ideal which he had vainly 
sought in so many examples of lettered youth. He became 
vain, perhaps, but certainly a little self-willed, as was his na- 
ture ; but feeling himself to be on the top of the wave, and 
above those precautions for keeping himself there which had 
once seemed necessary. He did not, indeed, turn to any 
harm, for that was not in his nature ; but feeling himself no 
longer a schoolboy, but a man, and the chosen friend of half 
the dons of his college, he turned aside with a fine contempt 
from the ordinary ways of fame-making, and betook himself 
to the pursuit of his own predilections in the way of learning. 
He had a fancy for out-of-the-way studies, for authors who 
don’t pay, for eccentricities in literature ; in short, for having 
his own way and reading what h^ chose. Signals of danger 
became gradually visible upon his path, and troubled consul- 
tations were held over him in the common room. “He is 
paying no attention to his books,” remarked one ; “he is read- 
ing at large whatever pleases liira.” Much was to be said for 
this principle, but still, alas, these gentlemen were all agreed 
that it does not pay. 

“If he does not mind, he will get nothing but a pass,” the 
Rector said, bending his brows. The learned society shrank, 
as if a sentence of death had been pronounced. 

“ Oh, no, not so bad as that !” they cried, with one voice. 

“What do you call so bad as that? Is not a third Averse 
than that? Is not a second quite as bad?” said the majes- 
tic presiding voice. “In the gulf there are no names men- 
tioned. We are not credited with a mistake. It will be bet- 
ter. if he does not stick to his books, that he should drop.” 

Young Warrender’s special tutor made frantic efforts to 
arrest this doom. He pointed out to the young man the eA*il 
of his ways. “ In one sense all my syni])athies are Avith you,” 
he said ; “ but. my dear fellow, if you don’t read your books 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


you may be as learned as and as clear sighted as ” 

(the historian, being unlearned, does not know what names 
were here inserted), “but you will never get to the head of the 
lists, where we have hoped to see you.” 

“ What does it matter,” said Warrender, in boyish splendor. 
“The lists are merely symbols. You know one’s capabilities 
without that ; and as for the opinion of the common mass, of 
what consequence is it to me ?” 

A cold perspiration came out on the tutor’s brow. “It is of 
gi-eat consequence to — the college,” he asserted. “ My dear 
fellow, so long as we are merely mortal we can’t despise sym- 
bols ; and the Rector has set his heart on having so many first 
classes. He doesn’t like to be disappointed. Come, after it’s 
all over you will have plenty of time to read as you like.” 

“ But why shouldn’t I read as I like now ?” Warrender said. 
He was very self-willed. He was apt to start off at a tangent 
if anybody interfered with him, — a youth full of fads and 
ways of his own, scorning the common path, caring nothing 
for results. And by Avhat except by results is a college to be 
known and assert itself ? The tutor whose hopes had been so 
high was greatly depressed for some time after. He even 
made an appeal to the school tutor, the enthusiast who had 
sent up this troublesome original with so many fine prognos- 
tications who replied to the appeal, and descended one day 
upon the youth in his room, quite unexpectedly. 

“Well, Theo, my fine fello^v, how are you getting on? I 
hope you are keeping your eyes on the examination, and not 
neglecting your books.” 

“ I am delighted to see you, sir,” said the lad. “ I was just 
thinking I should like to consult you upon” — and here he en- 
tered into a fine question of scholarship,— a most delicate 
question, w^hich probably would be beyond the majority of 
readers, as it is of the writer. The face of the public-school 
man w-as a wonder to see. It was lighted up with pleasure, 
for he was an excellent scholar, yet clouded with alarm, for 
he knew the penalties of such behavior in a “man” with an 
examination before him. 

“My dear boy,” he said, “in which of your books do you 
find any reference to that?” 

“ In none of them, I suppose,” said the young scholar. 
“ But you don’t think there is any sanctity in a set of prescrib- 
ed books ? ” 

“Oh, no, no sanctity : but use,” said the alarmed master. 


8 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

“ Come, Theo, there’s a good fellow, don’t despise the tools we 
all must work with. It’s your duty to the old place, you 
know, which all these newspaper fellows are throwing stones 
at whenever they have a chance, and it’s your duty to your 
college. I know what you are worth, of course : but how can 
work be tested to the public eye except by the lists? ” 

“Why should I care for the public eye?” said the mag- 
nanimous young man. “ We know that the lists don’t mean 
everything. A headache might make the best scholar that 
ever was lose his place. A fellow- that know's nothing might 
carry the day by a fluke. Don’t you remember, sir, that time 
when Daw'S got the Lincoln because of that old examiner, who 
gave us all his ow-n old fads in the papers ? Every fellow- that 
was any good w-as out of it, and Daws got the scholarship. I 
am sure you can’t have forgotten that.” 

“Oh, no, I have not forgotten it,’' said the master, ruefully. 

‘ ‘ But that w-as only once in a w-ay. Come, Theo, be reasonable. 
As long as you are in training, you know% you must keep in 
the beaten w-ay. Think, my boy, of your school — and of me, 
if you care for my credit as a tutor.” 

“ You know, sir, I care for you, and to please you,” said 
Warrender, with feeling. “ But as for your credit as a tutor, 
who can touch that? And even I am not unknow-n here,” he 
added, wdth a little boyish pride. “Everybody that is of any 
importance know-s that the Rector himself has ahvays treated 
me quite as a friend. I don’t think ” — this with the ineffable 
simple self-assurance of youth, so happy in the discrimination 
of those w-ho approve of it that the gratification scarcely feels 
like vanity — “that I shall be misunderstood here.” 

“ Oh, the young ass ! ” said the master to himself, as he w^ent 
away. “ Oh, the young idiot ! Poor dear Theo, w-hat w-iil be 
his feelings wdien he finds out that all they care for is the credit 
of the college ? ” But he w^as not so barbarous as to say this, 
and Warrender w-as left to find out by himself, by the lessening 
number of the breakfasts, by the absence of his name on the 
lists of the Rector’s dinner parties, by the gradual cooling of 
the incumbating warmth, what had been the foundation of all 
the affection show-n him. It w-as not for some time that he 
perceived the change w-hich made itself slowly apparent, the 
gradual loss of interest in him w-ho had been the object of so 
much interest. The nest w-as, so to speak, left cold, no father 
bird lending his aid to the development ; his books w-ere no 
longer forced on his consideration ; his tutor no longer made 


A COUNTRY GET ALEMAN. 9 

anxious remarkt'. Lilce other silly younglings, the lad for 
a while rejoiced in his freedom, and believed that he had suc- 
ceeded in making his pastors and teachers aware of a better 
way. And it was not till there flashed upon him the awful 
revelation that they were taking up Brunson that he began to 
see the real state of affairs. Brunson was the all round man 
whom Sixth Form despised,— a fellow who had little or no 
taste for the higher scholarship, but who always knew his 
books by heart, mastering everything that would “ pay” with 
a determin jd practical faculty fertile of results. Tin re is no 
one for whom the dilettante mind has a greater contempt; and 
when Warrender saw that Brunson fig-ured at the Eector-s 
dinner parties as he himself had once done, that it Vv as Brun- 
son who went on the river with parties of young dons and 
walked out of college arm in arm with his tutor, the whole 
meaning of his own brief advancement burst upon him. Nat 
for himself, as he had supposed in the youthfal simplici:y 
which he called vanity now, and ciiaracterized by strong a .1- 
jectives ; not in the least for him, Theo Warrender, scholar 
and gentleman, but for what he might bring to the college, — 
the honors, the scholai-sliips, the credit to everybody concerned 
in producing a successful student. That he became angry, 
scornful, and Byronic on the spot need surprise nobody. 
Brunson 1 who never had come within a hundred miles of him 
or of his set at school ; did not even understand the fine prob- 
lems which the initiated love to discuss ; was nothing more 
than a plodding fellow, who stuck to his work, and cared no 
more for the real soul of Greek hterature or pliilosophy than 
the scout did. Warrender laughed aloud, — that hollow laugh 
which was once so grand an exponent of feeling, and which, 
though the Byronic mood has gone out of fashion, will never 
go out of fashion so long as there is youthful pride to 
be wounded, and patient merit has to accept the spiu-ns of the 
unworthy. No, perhaps the adjective is mistaken, if Shakes- 
peare ever was mistaken ; not patient, but exasperated merit, 
conscious to the very finger jDoints of its own deserts. 

Warrender was well enough aware that he could, if he chose, 
make up the lost way and leave Brunson nowhere ” in the 
race for honors ; but it was his first disenchantment, and he 
felt it deeply. Letters are dear and honors sweet, but our own 
beloved personality is dearer still ; and there is no one who 
does not feel humbled and wounded when he finds out that he 
is esteemed, not for himself, but for what he can do,— and 


10 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

poor Theo was only twenty, and had been made much of all 
his life. He began to ask himself, too, whether his past popu- 
larity, and pleasant things that had been always said of him, 
the pleasant way in wliich liis friendship had been sought, were 
perhaps all inspired by the same motive, — because he was like- 
ly to do credit to his belongings and friends. It is a fine thing 
to do credit to your belongings, to be the pride of your com- 
munity, to be quoted to future generations as the hero of the 
past. This was what had occurred to liim at school, and he had 
liked it immensely. Warrender had been a word to conjure 
withal, named by lower boys with awe, fondly cherished in 
the records of Sixth Form. But the glimmer in the Head 
Master’s eye as he said good-by, the little falter in liis tutor’s 
voice, — did these mean no more than an appreciation of liis 
progress, and an anticipation of the honor and glory he was to 
bring them at the university, a name to fling in the teeth of 
the newspaper fellows next time they demanded what were 
the results of the famous public-school system ? This thought 
had a sort of maddening effect upon the fastidious, hot-headed, 
impatient young man. He flung his books into a comer of the 
room, and covered them over with a yellow caira of railway 
novels. If that -was all, there let them lie. He resolved that 
nothing Avould induce him to touch them more. 

The result was — but why should w’e d'well ujx)n the result ? 
It sent a shiver through the college, where there were some 
faithful souls who still believed that AVarrender could pick up 
even at the last moment, if he liked. It produced such a sen- 
sation in his old school as relaxed discipline entirely, and con- 
founded masters and scholars in one dark discouragement.” 

‘‘Warrender has only got a in Mods.” We decline to 

place any number where that blank is ; it filled every division 
(except the lowest) with consternation and dismay. Warren- 
der I who was as sure of a first as — why, there was nobody 
who was so sure as Warrender! The masters who w^ere 
Cambridge men recovered their courage after a little, and 
said, “ I told you so! That was a boy wdio ought to have gone 
to Cambridge, where individual characteristics are taken into 
consideration.” Warrender’s tutor took to his bed, and was 
not visible for a week, after which only the most unsympa- 
thetic, not to say brutal, of his colleagues, would have men- 
tioned before him W arrender’s name. However, time reconciles 
all things, and after a w’hile the catastrophe was forgotten and 
everything was as before. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


11 


But not to Warrender himself. He smiled, poor boy, a Byronic 
smile, with a curl of the upper lip such as suited the part, and 
saw himself abandoned by the authorities with what he felt to 
be a lofty disdain ; and he relapsed into such studies as pleased 
him mosr, and set prescribed books and lectures at defiance. 
What was worse to bear was tnat other classes of “men” 
made up to him after the men of distinction, those whom the 
dons considered the best men, had withdrawn and left Iilm to 
pursue his own way. The men who loafed considered him 
their natural prey ; the cesthetic men who wrote bad verses 
opened their arms, and were ready to welcome liim as their 
own. And perhaps among these classes he might have found 
disinterested friendship, for nobody any longer sought War- 
render on account of what he could do. But he did not make 
the trial, wTapping himself up in a Childe-Harold-like 
superiority to all those who would consort with him, now tliat 
he had lost his hold of those with wdiom only he desired to 
consort. His mother and sisters felt a little surprised, when 
they came up to Commemoration, to find that they v/ere not 
overwhelmed by invitations from Theo’s friends. Other ladies 
had not a spare moment ; tney %vere lost in a turmoil of break- 
fa.sts, luncheons, water parties, concerts, flower shows, and 
knew the interior of half the rooms in half the colleges. But 
with the Miss AVarrenders this was not so. They were asked 
to luncheon by Brunson, indeed, and had tea in the rooms of a 
young Cavendish, who had been at school with Tlieo : he was 
a freshman, and did not count. But that was all, and it 
mortified the girls who were not prepared to find themselves 
60 much at a disadvantage. This was not the only notice that 
was taken of his downfall at home, where there was no academ- 
ical ambition, and where everybody was quite satisfied so long 
as he kept his health and did not get into any scrape. Perhaps 
this made him feel it all the more, that his disappointment and 
enchantment w^ere entirely shut up in his o^^^n bosom, and that 
he could not confide to any one the terrible disillusionment 
that had befallen him on the very threshold of his life. That 
the Rector snould pass him with the slightest possible nod, and 
his tutor say How d’ ye do, Warrender? without even a smile 
when they met, was nothing to anybody except himself. Arm 
in arm "with Brunson, the don would give him that salutation. 
Brunson, who had got his first in Mods, was going on placidly, 
admired of all, to another first in the final schools. 

But if there was any one v^'ho understood WaaTender’s feeb 


12 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


in^^s it was this same Brunson^ who was in his way an honest 
fellow, and understood the situation. “It is all pot-hunting^, 
you know,” this youth said. “Tliey don’t care for me any 
more than they care for Jenkinson. It’s ail for Avhat I bring to 
the college, just as it was for what they expected you were 
gaing to bring to the college ; only I tinders' ood it, and you 
did’nt. I don’t care fcr them any more than they do for me. 
Why, they might see, if they had any sense, that to work at 
you, who care for that sort of thing, would be far better than 
to bother me, who only eare for what it will bring. If they 
had stuck to you tliey might have done a deal uuth you, 
Warrender, whereas I should have done just the same whether 
they took any notice of me or not.” 

“You mean to say I'm an empty-headed fool that could be 
cajoled into anything ! ” cried the other angrily. 

“ I mean nothing of the sort. 1 mean that I’m going to be a 
schoolmaster, and that first classes, etc., are my stock in trade. 
You don’t suppose I work to please the Rector ? And I know, 
and he knows, and you know, that I don’t know a leiith part 
so much as you do. If they had held on at you, Theo, tliey 
might have got a great scholar out of you. But tliat’s not 
what they want. They want so many firsts, and the Hertford 
and the Ireland, and all the rest of it. It’s all pot-hunting,” 
Mr. Brunson said. But this did not lessen the effect of the 
disencliantment, the first disappointment of life. He became 
prone to suspect everybody after that first proof that no one 
was above suspicion,— not even the greatly respected head of 
one of the first colleges in the world. 

After that dreadful fiasco in the schools, Wan-ender contin- 
ued to keep his terms very quietly ; seeing very few people, 
making very feiv friends, reading after his own fashion with 
an obstinate indifference to all systems of study, and shutting 
his eyes poreistently to the near approacli of the final ordeal. 
Things were in this condition when he received a sudden tele- 
gi*am calling him home. “ Come at once, or you will be too 
late,” was the message. The Rector, to whom he rushed at 
once, looked at it coldly. He was not fond of giving an 
undergraduate leave in the middle of the tenn. “The college 
could have wished for a more definite message,” he said. 
“Too late for what, Mr. Warrender?” “Too late to see my 
father alive, sir?” cried the young man; and as this had all 
the definiteness that the college required he was allowed, tp go. 
This was how his studies were broken up just as they ap- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


13 


proached the close, although, as he had been so capricious and 
self- willed, nobody expected that in any circumstances it could 
have been a very satisfactory close. 

n. 

Tee elder Mr. Warrender was a country gentleman of an 
undistinguished kind. The county gentry of England is a 
very comprehensive class. It includes the very best and most 
delightful of English men and English women, the truest 
nobiiitj", the finest gentlemen ; but it also includes a number 
of beings the most limited, dull, and commonplace that human 
experience knows. In some cases they are people who do well 
to be proud of the generation of gentlefolk tlu’ough v.diom they 
trace their line, and who have transmitted to them not only 
the habit of command, but the habit of protection, and that 
easy gi’ace of living which is not to be acquired at first hand ; 
and there are some whose forefathers have handed down noth- 
ing but 60 many farms and fields, and various traditions, in 
which father and eon follow each other, each smaller and more 
petty of soul than he that went before. The family at the 
Warren were of this class. They were acknowledged gentry, 
beyond all question, but their estates and means were small and 
their souls smaller. Their income never reached a higher level 
than about fifteen hundred a year. Their paternal home was 
a house of rather mean appearance, rebuilt on the ruins of the 
old one in the end of last century, and consequently as ugly as 
four square walls could be. The woods had grown up about it, 
and hid it almost entirely from sight, which was an advantage, 
perhaps, to the landscape, but not to those who were con- 
demned to dwell in the house, which was without light and air 
and everything that was cheering. The name of Vv^arren was 
very well adapted to the place, which, exeex^t one corner of the 
old house wTiich had stood fast when the rest was x)ulled down, 
might almost have been a biiirow in the soft green earth, damp 
and warm and full of the mould of ages, though it was a mere 
new-comer in the world. Its furniture v.^as almost entirely of 
tlie same date as the house, which means dingy carpets, cur- 
tains of harsh and unpliable stiili, and immense catafalques of 
mahogany in the shape of side-boards, arm-chairs and beds. A 
four-poster of mahogany, with hangings of red moreen, as stiff 
as a board and much less soft, — that v.-as the kind of furnish- 
ing; to be sm*e, it was full of feather-beds aud pillows, warm 


14 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

blankets and fresh linen, which some people thought made 

amends. 

The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Warrender, two daugh- 
ters, and the son, Avith whom the reader has already made 
acquaintance. How ho had found his way into siicii a nest 
was one of those problems which the prudent evolutionist 
scarcely cares to tackle. The others were in their natural 
place: the father a Warrender like the last dozen Warrenders 
who had gone before him, and the girls cast exactly in the 
mould of all the previous Minnies and Chattys of the family. 
They Avere all dull, blameless, and good— to a certain extent ; 
perfectly satisfied to live in the Warren aJl the year long, to 
spend eA'ery even in g of their lives round the same hearth, to do 
the same thing to-day as they had done yesterday and should 
do to-morrow. To be so easily contented, to accommodate 
one’s self Avitli such philosophy to one’s circumstances,— what 
an advantage that is ! But it required no philosophy on the 
part of the girls, Avho had not imagination enough to think of 
anything different, and AAdio doA’outly belieA^ed that nothing 
on earth Avas so Aurtuous, so dignified, so praise-worthy, as to 
keep the linen in order, and make your own underclothing, and 
sit round the fire at home. When any one would read aloud 
to them they wanted no better paradise ; but they Avere not 
very exacting even in the matter of reading aloud. Hov. ever 
exciting the book might be, they Avere quite willing that it 
should be put away at a quarter to ten, Avith a book-marker in 
it to keep the place. Once Chatty had been knoAvn to take it 
up clandestinely after prayers, to see Avhether the true murderer 
was found out ; but Minnie Avaited quite decorously till eight 
o’clock next evening, Avhich Avas the right hour for resuming 
the reading. Happy girls ! They thus had in their limited 
little AA'orld quite a happy life, expecting nothing, groAving no 
older from year to year. Minnie Avas tAventj-five, Chatty 
tAventy-threo : they Avere good-looking enough in their quiet 
way, A"ery neat and tidy, Avith broAvn hair so AA^ell brushed that 
it reflected the lights. Theodore Avas the youngest, and he 
had been very Aveicome Avlien he came ; for otherAvise the pro- 
perty Avould haA’e gone to a distant heir of entail, Avhich Avould 
not have been pleasant for any of the family. He had been a 
A’ery quiet boy so long as he Avas at liouna, though not perhaps 
in the same manner of quietness as that of the girls ; but since 
he was thirteen he had been aAvay for the greater part of the 
yeai's, appearing only in the holidays, when he was always 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 15 




reading for Bomething or otlier,— so that nobody was aware 
how great was the difference between the fastidious young 
scholar and the rest of his belongings. 

Mr. 'VVarrender himself was not a scholar. He liad got 
through life very well without ever being at the university. 
In his day it was not considered such a necessity as now. And 
he was not at all critical of his son. So long as the boy got into 
no scrapes he asked no more of liim. He was quite compla- 
cent when Theo brought home his school prizes, and used to 
point them out to visitors. “ This is for his Latin verses,” he 
would say. “I don’t know where the boy got a turn for 
poetry. I am sure it was not from me.” The beautiful smooth 
binding and the school arms on the side gave him great grati- 
fication. He had a faint notion that as Theo brought home no 
prizes from Oxford he was not perhaps getting on so well ; but 
naturally he knew nothing of his son’s experiences with the 
Rector and the dons. And by that time he was ill and feverish, 
and far more taken up about his beef tea than about anything 
else in the world. They did not make it half strong enough. 

If they only wmuld make it strong he felt sure he would soon 
regain his strength. But how could a man pick up, wdio was 
allowed nothing but slops, when his beef tea was like water ? 
This was the matter that occupied him most, wdiile his son was 
going through the ordeal above described, — there never was 
any taste in the beef tea. Mr. Warrender thought the cook 
must make away wdth the meat ; or else send the best of the 
infusion to some of her people in the villiage, and give it to him 
watered. When it Avas made over the fire in his room he said 
his Avife had no skill; she let all the goodness CA’aporate. He 
neA-er could be satisfied Avith his beef tea; and so, grumbling 
and inaignant, finding no saAmr in anything, but thoroughly 
convinced that this Avas “ their ” fault, and that they could 
make it better if they Avere to try, he dwindled and faded 
aAvay. 

It Avas a long illness; a family gets used to along illness, and 
after a Avhile accepts it as the natural course of events. And 
the doctor had assured them all that no sudden “ change” Avas 
to be looked for. Nevertheless there Avas a sudden change. « 
It had become the routine of the house that each of the ladies 
should spend so many hours Avith papa. Mrs. Warrender Avas 
with him of course, a greater part of the day, and AA^ent out 
and in to see if he Avas comfortable every hour or tAvo during 
the night; but one of the girls always sat with him in the 


16 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


evening, bringing her needlework upstairs, and feeling that 
she was doing her duty in giving up the reading just when the 
book was at its most interesting i^oint. It was after Chatty 
liad fulfilled this duty, and everybody was serenely preparing 
to go to bed, that the change came. “How is ho?” Mrs. 
Warrender had said, as they got out the Prayer-Book whicli 
was used at family prayers. “Just as usual, mamma: quite 
quiet and comfortable. I think lie was asleei:), for he took no 
notice when I bade him good-night,” Chatty said: and then the 
servants came in, and the little rites were accomplished. Mrs. 
Warrender then went up-stairs, and received the same report 
from her maid, who sat with the patient in the intervals when 
the ladies were at prayers. “ Quite comfortable, ma’am, and I 
think he is asleei^.” Mrs. YNT'arrender went to the bed-side and 
drew back the curtain softly, — the red moreen curtain which 
was like a bo^rd suspended by the head of the bed, — and lo, 
while they all had been so calm, the change had come. 

The girls thought their mother made a great deal more fuss 
than was necessary; for v/hat could be done? It might be right 
to send for the doctor, who is an ofidcial Vvdiose presence is 
essential at the last act of life; but what was the good of send- 
ing a man on liorseback into Highcombe, on the chance of the 
telegraph office being still open ? Of course it was not open; and 
if it had been Theo could not possibly leave Oxford till next 
morning. But then it was a well-known fact that mamma 
was excitable, and often did things without tiiought. He 
lingered all night, ‘ ‘just alive, and that is ail,” the doctor said. 
It was Chatty who sent for the rector, who came and read the 
l^rayers for the sick at the bedside, but agreed with Dr. Durant 
that it was of no use attempting to rouse the departing soul 
from the lethargy in which he lay. And before Theodore 
an-ived all was over. He knew it before he entered the house 
by tlie sight of the drawn blinds, which received him with a 
blank whiteness of woe as soon as he caught sight of the vnn- 
dows. They had not sent to meet him at the station, thinking 
he would not come till the later train. 

“Try and get mamma to lie down,” Minnie said as she 
• kissed her brother. “She is going on exciting herself for 
nothing. I am sure everything was done that could be done, 
and we can do him no good by making ourselves more miser- 
able now.” 

Minnie had cried in the early morning as much as was right 
and natui'al, — her eyes were still a little red ; but she did not 


17 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

think it necessary to begin over again, as Chatty did, who had 
a tendency to overdo everything, like mamma. As for Theo- 
dore, ho did not cry at all, but grew very pale, and did not say 
a word when he was taken into the chamber of death. The 
sight of that marble, or rather waxen, figure lying there had a 
greater efliect upon his imagination than upon that of either of 
the girls, who perhaps had not got any imagination to be 
affected. He was overawed and silenced by that presence, 
which he had never met before so near. When his mother 
tlmew herself into his arms, with that excess of emotion which 
was peculiar to her, he held her close to him with a throb of 
answering feeling. The sensation of staiidmg beside that 
which was not, although it was, liis father went through and 
through the being of the sensitive young man. Death is al- 
ways most impressive in the case of a commonplace person, 
with whom we have no associations but the most ordinary 
ones of life. What had come to him ? — to the mind which had 
been so much occupied with the quality of his beef tea ? Was 
it jiossible that he could have leaped ail at once into the con- 
templation of the highest subjects, or must there not be some- 
thing intermediate between the beef tea and the Gloria in 
Excelsis ? This was the thought, inappropriate, unnatural, as 
he felt it, which came into his mind as he stood by the bed 
upon which lay that wliich had been the master of the Warren 
yesterday, and now was “ the body;” a solemn, inanimate 
thing an*anged with dreadful neatness, presently to be taken 
away and hid out of sight of the living. Tears did not come 
even when he took his mother into his arms, but only a dumb 
awe not unmixed with horror, and even that sense of repulsion 
with which some minds regard the dead. 

It was the height of summer, the time at which the Warren 
looked its best. The sunshine, "wliich scarcely got near it in the 
darker part of the year, now penetrated the trees on every 
side, and rushed in as if for a wager, every ray trying how far 
it could reach into the depths of the shade. It poured full in- 
to the drawing-room by one window, so that Minnie was 
mindful at all times to draw* down that blind, tliat the carpet 
might not be spoiled ; and of course all the blinds w*ere dowm 
now. It touched the front of the house in the afternoon, and 
blazed ujDon the lawm, making all the flow^ers wink. Inside, 
to people w*ho had come out of the heat and scorching of other 
places more open to. the influence of the skies, .the coolness of 
the Warren in July was delightful. The w*indow*s stood open, 


18 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

the hum of bees came in, the birds made an unceasing chorus 
in the trees. Neither birds nor bees took the least notice of 
the fact that there was death in the house. They carried on 
their jubilation, their hum of business, their love-making and 
nursery talk, all the same, and made the house sound not like 
a house of mourning, but a house of rejoicing ; all this har- 
monious noise being doubly audible in the increased stillness 
of the place, where Minnie thought it right to speak in a whis- 
per, and Chatty was afraid to go beyond the example of her 
sister. Mrs. 'Warrender kept her room, except in the evening, 
when she would go out with Theo for a little air. Only in the 
grounds I no further, — through the woods, which the moon- 
light pierced with arrows of silver, as far as the pond, which 
shone like a white mirror with all the great leaves of the 
water-lilies black upon its surface. But the girls thought this 
was too much. They could not think how she could feel able 
for it before the funeral. They sat with one shaded lamp and 
the shutters all closed, “reading a book,” which was their 
severest estimate of gravity. That is to say, each had a book : 
one had a volume of sermons, the other Paradise Lost, which 
had always been considered Sunday reading by the Warren- 
ders, and came in very conveniently at this moment. They 
had been busy all day with the maid and the dressmaker 
from the village, getting their mourning ready. There were 
serious doubts in their minds how high the crape ought to 
come on their skirts, and whether a *011!? of that material 
would be enough without other trimmings on the sleeves ; but 
as it was very trying to the eyes to work at black in candle- 
light, they had laid it all aside out of sight, and so far as 
was ]X)ssible out of thought, and composed themselves to read 
as a suitable occupation for the evening, less cheerful than 
colored or white needlework, and more appropriate. It was 
veiy difficult, especially for Minnie, upon whom the cliief re- 
sponsibility would rest, to put that question of the crape out 
of her thoughts ; but she read on in a very determined man- 
ner, and it is to be hoped that she succeeded. She felt very 
deeply the impropriety of her mother’s proceedings. She had 
never herself stirred out-of-doors since her father’s death, and 
would not till after the funeral, should the interests of nations 
hang on it. She, at least, knew what her duty was, and 
would do it. Chatty was not so sure on this subject, but she 
had been more used to follow Minnie than to follow mamma, 
and she was loyal to her traditions. One window was open a 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 19 

little behind the half-closed shutters, and let in something of 
the sounds and odors of the night. Chatty was aware that the 
moon was at the full, and would have liked to stretch her 
young limbs with a run ; but she dared not even think of such 
a tiling in sight of Minnie's face. 

“I wonder how long mamma means to stay. One would 
think she was enjoying it,” Minnie said, with a little emphasis 
on the word. As she used it, it seemed the most reprehensible 
verb in the world. 

“She likes to be with Theo,” said Chatty; “and she is al- 
ways such a one for the air.” 

“ Likes !” said her sister. “ Is this a time to tliink of what 
one likes, with poor dear papa in his coffin ? ” 

“She never left him as long as he wanted her,” said the 
apologetic sister. 

“No, indeed, I should hope not: that would have been 
criminal. Poor dear mamma would never do anytliing really 
bad ; but she does not mind if she does a thing that is unusu- 
al. It is very unusual to go out before the funeral ; it is a 
thing that is never done, especially by the ladies of the house.” 

“Shall we be able to go out on Friday, Minnie?” Friday 
was the funeral day. 

“ It would be very bad taste, I think. Of course, if it does 
not prove too much for us, we ought to go to church to meet 
the procession. Often it is thought to be too much for the 
ladies of a family.” 

“ I am sure it would not be too much for me. Oh, I shall 
go as far as we can go with him — to the grave, Minnie.” 

“You had better wait till you see whether it will not be too 
much for you,” said the elder sister, while Chatty dried her 
eyes. Minnie’s eyes had no need of drying. She had cried at 
the right time, but it was little more than levity to be always 
crying. It was nearly as bad as enjoying anything. She did 
not like extravagance of any kind. 

And then they turned to their reading again, and felt that, 
whatever mamma might think herself at liberty to do, they, at 
least, were paying that respect to their father’s memory which 
young women in a well-regulated household should always bt 
the first to pay. 


20 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


III. 

Meanwhile the mother and son took their walk. It was a 
very silent walk, without much outward trace of that enjoy- 
ment which Minnie had felt so cruelly out of place, but no 
doubt to both there was a certain pleasure in it. Mr. WaiTen- 
der had now been lying in that sileiit state which the most in- 
significant person liolds immediately after death, for tliree 
days, and there was still another to come before he could be 
laid away in the dark and noisome bed in the family vault, 
where all the Warrenders made their last assertion of supe- 
riority to common clay. This long and awful pause in the 
affairs of life was intolerable to the two people now walking 
softly through the paths of the little wood, where the moon- 
beams shone through th« trees ; the son, because he was of an 
impatient nature, and could not endure the artificial gloom 
which was thus forced upon him. He had felt keenly all 
those natural sensations which the loss of a father calls forth : 
the breaking of an old tie, the oldest in the world ; the breach 
of all the habits of his life ; the absence of the familiar greet- 
ing, which had always been kind enough, if never enthusias- 
tic ; the general overturn and loss of the usual equilibrium in 
his little world. It was no blame to Theo if his feelings Avent 
little further than this. His father had been no active in- 
fluence in his life. His love had been passive, expressing it- 
self in few words, without sympathy in any of the young man’s 
pursuits, or knowledge of them, or desire to know, — a dull 
affection because the boy belonged to him, and satisfaction in 
that he had never got into any scrapes or given any trouble. 
And the return which the son made was in the same kind. 
Theo had felt the natural pang of disruption very warmly at 
the moment ; he had felt a great awe and wonder at sight of 
the mystery of that pale and solemn thing which had lately 
been so unmysterious and unsolemn. But even these pangs 
of natural sensation had fallen into a little ache and 
weariness of custom, and his fastidious soul grew tired of the 
bonds that kept him, or would have kept him, precisely at the 
same point of feeling for so many hours and days. This is not 
possible for any one, above all for a being of his temper, and 
he was restless beyond measure, and eager to get over this en- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


21 


forced pause, and emerge into the common life and daylight 
beyond. The drawn blinds somehow created a stifling atmos- 
phere in his very soul. 

Mrs. Warrender felt it was indecorous to begin to speak of 
plans and what was to be done afterwards, so long as her dead 
husband was still master of the oppressed and melancholy 
house ; but her mind, as may be supposed, was occupied by 
them in the interv'als of other thoughts. She was not of the 
Warrender breed, but a woman of lively feelings ; and as soon 
as the partner of her life was out of her reach she had begun 
to torment herself with fears that she had not been so good to 
him as she ought. There was no truth, at least no fact, in 
this, for there could have been no better wife or more careful 
nurse. And yet, as every individual knows more of his or 
her self than all the rest of the world knows, Mrs. Warrender 
was aware that there were many things lacking in her con- 
jugal devotion. iShe had not been the wife she knew how to 
be ; in her heart she had never given herself credit for fulfill- 
ing her dutj*. Oh, yes, she had fuihlled all her duties. She 
had been everything to him that he wanted, that he expected, 
that he was capable of understanding. But she knew very 
well that when all is said, that is not everything that can be 
said ; and now that he was dead, and could no longer look in 
her face with lack-lustre eyes, wondering what the deuce the 
Vvoman meant, she threw herself back upon her own standard, 
and knew that she had not come up to it. Even now she 
could not come up to it. Her heart ought to be desolate ; life 
ought to hold nothing for her but perhaps resignation, perhaps 
despair. She ought to be beyond all feeling for what was to 
come. Yet she was not so. On the contrary, new ideas, new 
plans, had welled up into lier mind, — how many, how few 
hours after she had laid downi the charge, in which outwardly 
she had been so faithful, but inwardly so full of short- 
comings ? These plans filled her mind now as she went by her 
son’s side through the mossy paths where, even in the height 
of summer, it w’as always a little cold. She could not sj^eak of 
them, feeling a horror of herself, an ashamed sense that to be- 
tray the revulsion of her thoughts to her boy would bo to put 
her down from her position in his respect forever. Between 
. these mutual reluctances to betray what was really in them 
the two went along very silently, as if they were counting 
their steps, their heads a little bowed down, the sound of their 
feet making far more commotion th.an was necessary in the 


22 


-I COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


stillness of the place. To be out-of-doors -was something for 
both of them. They could breathe more freely, and if they 
could not talk could at least think, without the sense that 
they were impairing tlie natural homage of all things to the 
recently dead. 

“ Take care, Theo,” she said, after a long interval of silence. 
“ It is very damp here.” 

“ Yes, there is a good deal of timber that ought to go.” He 
caught liis breath when he had said this, and she gave a slight 
shiver. They would both have spoken quite freely had the 
father been alive. “ The house is damp, too,” said he, taking 
courage. 

“ In winter, perhaps, a little, when there is much rain.” 

And then there was a long pause. When they came within 
sight of the j^ond, which glistened under the moonlight, re- 
flecting all the trees in irregular masses, and showing here and 
there a big white water-lily bud couched upon a dark bank 
of leaves, he spoke again: “I don’t think it can be very 
healthy, either, to have the pond so near the house.” 

“You have always had your health, all of you,” she said. 

“ That is true ; but not very much of it. We are a subdued 
sort of family, mother.” 

“That is because the Warrenders” — She stopped here, 
feeling the inappropriateness of vdiat she was about to say. 
It very often happens that a wife has but little opinion of the 
race to which her husband belongs. She attributes the 
defects of her own children to that side instinctively. “It is 
character,” she said, “not health.” 

“But all the same, if we had a little more air and a little 
less shade” — 

He was becoming bolder as he went on. 

“Theo,” she said tremulously, “it is a little too soon to be- 
gin to talk of that.” 

And then there was a pause again. When they came to the 
edge of the pond, and stopped to look at the water-lilies, and 
at the white flood of the moonlight, and all the clustering 
masses of the trees that hung round as if to keep it hidden 
and sheltered, it was she who spoke : “ Your father was very 

fond of this view. Almost the last time he was out we 
brought him here. He sat down for a long time, and was quite 
pleased. He cared for beautiful things much more than he 
ever said.” 

The thought that passed through Theo’s mind was very 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


23 


rapid, and it might well be so, seeing nothing was ever said 
on the subject ; but his remark was, “ Very likely, mother,’' 
in a soft and soothing voice. 

“ I should be very sony to see any — I mean I hope you will 
not make much alteration here.” 

“ It is too soon,” he said hastily, “ to speak of that.” 

“Much too soon,” she replied, with a quick sense of shame, 
taking her son’s arm as they turned back. Even to turn back 
made the burden heavier, and dispelled the little advantage 
which they had got by the walk. 

“There will be, I suppose, a great number of people — on 
Friday.” 

“ Yes, I think a great number ; everybody about.” 

“What a nuisance! People might have sense enough to 
know that at such a moment we don’t want a lot of strange 
faces peering at us, finding out how we bear up.” 

“My dear, it would have pleased him to know every- 
body would be there.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Theo, in a tone which was half angry 
and half resigned. 

“We will have to take a little thought how they are to go. 
Lord Markland must come first, after the relations.” 

“ Why? They never took much notice of us, and my father 
never liked him. I don’t see why he should come at all.” 

“Oh, yes, he will come, and your dear father M^ould have 
liked it. The Warrenders have always thought a great deal 
of such things.” 

“ I am a Warrender, I hope, and I don’t.” 

“ Ah, Theo, you I But you are much more like my family,” 
she said, with a little pressure of his arm. 

This did not give him so much pleasure as it did her ; for, 
after all, however near a man may be to his mother’s family, 
he generally prefers his own, and the name which it is his to 
bear. They got back under the thick shadow of the trees 
when the conversation came to this point, and once more it 
was impressed upon both that the path was very damp, and 
that even in July it was difficult to get tlirough without wet 
feet ; but Mrs. Warrender had felt herself checked by her son’s 
reply about the alterations, and Theo felt that to betray 
how much ho was thinking of them would be horrifying to 
his mother : so they both stepped into the marshy part with- 
out a word. 


24 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

“You are still decided to go on Friday — you and the 
girls ? ” 

“ Surely, Theo : we are all in good health, Heaven be 
praised I I should not feel that I had done everything if I did 
not go.” 

“ You are sure it Avill not be too much for you, mother? ” 

Tliis question went to her heart. She knew that it ought to 
be too much for her. Had she been the wife she ought to 
have been, the widow with a broken heart, then, perhaps, 
there might have been a doubt. But she knew also that it 
woidd not be too much for her. Her heart ached for the 
ideal anguish, which nobody looked for, nor would have un- 
derstood. “ He would have liked it,” she said, in a subdued 
voice. That, at least, was quite true : and to carry out all his 
wishes thus faithfully was something, although she could not 
pay liiin the homage which was his due, — the supreme compli- 
ment of a broken heart. 

At last Friday came. It was a dull day, of the color most 
congenial to such a ceremony. A gentle shower fell upon the 
wreaths and crosses that covered the coffin. There was a large 
assembly from all the country round, for Mr. Warrender liad 
been a man who never harmed anybody, which is perhaps a 
greater title to respect than those possess who have taken 
more trouble. When you try to do good, especially in a mral 
place, you are sure to stir up animosities ; but ]\Ir. Warrender 
had never stirred up anybody. He was greatly respected. 
Lord Markland was what the farmers called “a wild young 
sprig,” with little regard to the proprieties ; but he was there, 
and half the clergymen of the diocese, and every coimtry gen- 
tleman on the west side of the county. The girls from be- 
liind then- crape veils watched the procession filing into 
church, and were deeply gratified ; and Mrs. Warrender felt 
that he would have liked it, and that everything was being 
done according to his wishes. She said to herself that this 
was what he would have done for her if she had died first ; 
and immediately there rose before her eyes (also behind her 
crape veil) a picture of what might have been, had the coffin 
in the middle of the church been hers: hovv he would have 
stepped and looked, and the way in which he would have lield 
out liis hand silentlv to eacli of the company, and the secret 
pleasure in tlie fulfillment of all that was just and right 
whicli would have been in his mind. It was instantaneous, it 
was involuntary, it made her smile against her will ; but the 


25 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

smile recalled her to herself, and overwhelmed her with com- 
punction and miseiy. Smile — wlien it was he who lay there 
in the coffin, under that black pall, expecting from her the last 
observances, and that homage which ought to come from a 
breaking heart I 

The blinds were drawn up when they returned home, the 
sunshine pouring in, the table spread. Minnie, leading Chatty 
with her, not without a slight struggle on that young lady’s 
part, retired to her room, and lay down a little, which was the 
right thing to do. She had a tray brought upstairs, and was 
not disinclined for her luncheon. Mercifully, their presence 
at the funeral had not been too much for them, and all the 
mourning was complete and everything in order, even so far 
as to the jet necklaces which the girls put on when they went 
down to tea. Mrs. Warrender had been quite overcome on 
reentering the house, feeling, though she had so suffered from 
the long interval before the funeral, that to come back to a 
place from which he had now been solemnly shut out forever 
was more miserable than all that had gone before ; for it will 
be perceived that she was not of the steady mettle of the 
others, but a fantastic woman, who changed her mind very 
often, and whose feelings were always betraying her. The 
funeral had been early, and the distant visitors had been able 
to leave in good time, so that there was no need for a large 
luncheon party ; and the lawyer and a cousin of Mr. Warren- 
der’s were the only strangers who shared that meal with the 
mother and son. Then, as a proper period had now been ar- 
rived at, and as solicitors rush in where heirs fear to tread, 
open questions were asked about the plans of the family and . 
what Theo meant to do. He said at once, “ I see no need for 
plans. Why should there be any discussion of plans ? So far 
as outward circumstances go, what change is there? My 
mother and the girls will just go on as usual, and I, of course, 
will go back to Oxford. It will be more than a year before 
I can take my degree.” 

He thought — but no doubt he must have l>een mistaken — 
that a blank look came over his mother’s face ; but it was so 
im.possible that she could have thought of anything else that 
he dismissed the idea from his mind. She said nothing, but 
Mr. Longstaffe replied, — 

“ At present that is no doubt the wisest way ; but I think it 
is always well that people should understand each other at 
once and provide for all emergencies, so that there may be no 


26 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

wounded feeling, or that sort of thing, hereafter. You l:now, 
Mrs. Warrender, that the house in Highcombe has always 
been the jointure house ? ” 

“ Yes,” slie said, with a certain liveliness in her answer, al- 
most eagerness. “ My husband has often told me so.” 

“ We are authorized to put it in perfect repair, and you are 
authorized to choose whatever you please out of the furniture 
I at the Warren to make it according to your taste. Perhaps 
we had better do that at once, and put it into your hands. If 
you don’t live there, you can let it, or lend it, or make some 
use of it.” 

“It might be convenient,” Mrs. Warrender said, with a 
slight hesitation, “ if Theodore means, as I suppose he does, to 
carry out improvements here.” 

And yet she had implored him yesterday not to make many 
alterations ! Theo felt a touch of offense with his mother. 
He began to think there was something in the things the girls 
jjsed to say, that you never knew when you had mamma, or 
' wdiether she might not turn upon you in a moment. She 
grew much more energetic, all at once, and even her figure 
lost the slight stoop of languor that was in it. “If you are 
going to cut any trees, or do any drainage, Theo, we could all 
live there while the works went on.” 

He gave a slight start in person, and a much greater in 
spirit, and a fastidious curve came to his forehead. “ I don’t 
know that I shall cut any trees now. You know you said the 
other day. We can talk of that after.” 

“ Oh, yes, it is early days,” said the lawyer. “ Of course it 
is not as if there were other heirs coming in, or any compul- 
sory division were to be made. You can take your time. 
But I have always observed that things went smoother when it 
was imderstood from the first, in case of a certain emergency 
arising, or new conditions of any kind, so and so should fol- 
low. You understand what I mean.” 

“ It is always wisest,” said the Warrender cousin, “ to have 
it all put down hard and fast, so that nobody may be disap- 
pointed, whatever should happen. Of course Theo will 
marry.” 

“ I hope so,” said his mother, permitting herself to smile. 

“ Of course he will marry,” said the lawyer. 

“ But he had better take his degree first,” the cousin added, 
feeling that lie had distinguished himself ; “and in the mean 
time the girls and you will have time to look about you. 


.1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Highcombe is rather a dull place. And then the house is 
large. You could not get on in it with less than four or five 
servants.” 

“ Four would do,” said Mr. Longstaffe. 

“And supposing my cousin kept a pony chaise, or some- 
thing? She could not get on without a pony chaise. That 
means another.” 

Theodore j)ushed back his chair from the table with a harsh 
peremptoriness, startling them all. “lam sure my mother 
doesn’t want to go into these calculations,” he said ; “ neither 
do I. Leave us alone to settle what we find to be best.” 

“Dear me,” said cousin Warrender, “I hope you don’t 
imagine me to have any wish to interfere.” Theo did not 
make any reply, but gave his mother his arm, and led her up- 
stairs. 

“I did not wish you to be troubled with business at all; 
certainly not to-day,” he said to her, half apologetically. But 
there was something in her face which he did not quite under- 
stand, as she thanked him and smiled, with an inclination to 
cry. Was it possible that she was a little disappointed 
to have the discussion stopped, and that she took much inter- 
est in it, and contemplated not at all with displeasure the pros- 
pect of an entire change in her life ? 


IV. 

It will be divined from what has been said that there was 
one element in the life at the AVarren which has not yet been 
entered into, and that was Mrs. Warrender. The family were 
dull, respectable and proper to their fingers’ ends. But she 
was not dull. She had been Mr. Warrender’s wife for six- 
and-twenty years,— the wife of a dull, good man, wdio never 
wanted any variety in his life, who needed no change, no out- 
burst of laughter or tears, nothing to carry away the supera- 
bundance of the waters of life. AVith liim there had been no 
superabundance, there had never been any floods; conse- 
quently, there was no outlet necessary to carry them away. 
But she was a* woman of another sort : she was born to hun- 
ger for variety, to want change, to desire everything that was 
sweet and pleasant. And lo ! fate bound her to the dullest 
life, —to marry Mr. AVarrender, to live in the AVarren. She 
had not felt it so much in the earlier part of her life, for then 
she had to some extent what her spirit craved. She had chil- 


COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


28 

dren : and every such event in a woman’s life is like what 
going into battle is to a man,— a thing for which all liis spirits 
collect themselves, which she may come out of or may not, an 
enormou||risk, a great crisis. And \vhen their children were 
young, bSore they had as yet betrayed themselves what man- 
ner of spirits they were, she had her share of the laughter and 
the tears ; playing with her babies, living for them, singing to 
them, filling her life with them, and expecting as they grew 
up that all would be well. Many women live upon this hope. 
They have not had the completion of life in marriage which 
some have ; they have failed in the great lottery, either by 
their own fault or the fault of others : but the children, they 
say to themselves, will make all right. The dMlusionment 
which takes this form is the most bitter of all. The woman 
who has not found in her husband that dearest friend, whose 
companionship can alone make life happy, when she discovers 
after a while that the children in whom she has placed her last 
hope are his children, and not hers, — what is to become of her? 
She is thrown back upon her own individualit}" with a shock 
which is often more than flesh and blood can bear. 

In Mrs. Wari'ender’s case this was not, as in some cases, a 
tragical discovery, but it had an exasperating and oppressive 
character which was almost more terrible. She had been able 
to breathe while they were children ; but when they grew up 
they stifled her, each with the same “host of petty maxims” 
which had darkened the still air from her husband's lips. 
How, in face of the fact that she had been their teacher and guide 
far morO than their father ever was, they should have learned 
these, and put aside everything that was like her or expressed 
her sentiments, was a mystery which slie never could solve ; 
but so it was. Mr. Vv" arrender was what is called a very good 
father. He did not spoil them ; bonbons of any kind, physi- 
cal or spiritual, never came to them from his hands. He could 
not be troubled with them much as babies, but when they 
grew old enough to walk and ride with him he liked their 
company ; and they resembled him, which is always flattering. 
But he had taken very little notice of them diiring the first 
twelve years or so of their life. During that time they had 
been entirely in their mother’s hands, hearing her opinions, 
regnlated outwardly by her will : and yet they grew up their 
father’s children, and not hers ! How strange it was, with a 
touch of the comic which made her laugh ! — that laugh of ex- 
asperation and impatience which marks the intolerable almost 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


29 


more than tears do. How was it? Can any one explain tliis 
mystery? She was of a much more vivacious, robust, and vig- 
orous race than he was, for the level of health among the 
■VVarrenders, like the leA^el of being generally, was low; but 
this lively, Avarm-blooded, energetic creature was swallowed up 
by the dull cuiTent of the family life, and did not aflect it at 
all. She nursed them, ruled them, breathed her life into them, 
iji vain: they were their father's cliildren, — they were War- 
renders born. 

This was not precisely the case with Theo, her only son. To 
him she hau transmitted something ; not her energy and love 
of life, but rather something of that exasperated impatience 
wdiich was so often the temper of her mind in later years, 
though suppressed by all the powers of self-control she 
possessed, and modified, happily, by the versatility of her na- 
ture, which could not brood and mope over one subject, how- 
ever deeply that might enter into her life. This impatience 
took in Jiim the form of a fastidious intolerance, a disposition 
to start aside at a touch, to put up Avith nothing, to hear no 
reason, even, when lie AA-ias offended or crossed. He was like 
a restive horse, Avhom the mere movement of a shadoAv, much 
more the touch of a rein or the faintest vibration of a Avhip, 
sets off in the wildest gallop of nervous self-will or self-asser- 
tion. The horse, it is to be supposed, desires his oAvn way as 
much as the man does Avhen lie bolts or starts. Theo Avas in 
this respect AA^onderfully unlike the strain of the WaiTenders, 
but he AA-as not on that account more like his mother ; and he 
had so much of the calm of the paternal blood in his veins 
along Avith this unmanageableness that he Avas as contented as 
the rest Avith the quiet of the home life, and so long as he Avas 
permitted to shut himself up Avith his book Avished for no dis- 
traction— nay, disliked it, and thought society and amuse- 
ments an intolerable bore. 

Thus it Avas the mother alone to Avhom the thought of 
change Avas pleasant. A Avoman of forty-five in Avidow’s 
AA^eeds, Avho had just nursed her husband through a long ill- 
ness and lost him, and Avhose life since she Avas nineteen had 
been spent in this quiet liouse among ail tliese still surround- 
ings, amid the unchangeable traditions of rural life,— avIio 
could have ventured to imagine the devouring impatience that 
Avas Avitliin her, the desire to flee, to shake the dust off her 
feet, to leave her home and all her associations, to get out into 
tl^e Avorld and breathe a larger air and be free? Sons and 


30 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

daughters may entertain such sentiments ; even the girls, 
Avhose life, no doubt, had been a dull one, might be supposed 
willing enough, with a faint pretense of natural and tradition- 
ary reluctance, and those few natural tears vrhich are wiped 
so soon, to leave home and see the world. But the mother I 
In ordinary circumstances it would have been the duty of the 
historian to set forth the hardness of Mrs. Warrender’s case, 
deprived at once, by hei' husband’s death, not only of her 
companion and protector, but of her home and position as 
head of an important house. Such a case is no doubt often a 
hard one. It adds a hundred little humiliations to grief, and 
makes bereavement downfall, the overthrow of a woman’s im- 
portance in the world, and her exile from the sphere in which 
she has spent her life. We should be far more sure of the 
reader’s symxjathy if we pictured her visiting for the last time 
all the familiar liaunts of past years, tearing herself away 
from the beloved rooms, feeling the world a blank before her 
as she turned away. 

On the contrary, it is scarcely possible to describe the chill 
of disappointment in her mind when Theo put an abrupt stop 
to all speculations, and olTered her his arm to lead her ujistairs. 
She ought, perhaps, to have wanted his support t3 go upstairs, 
after all, as her maid said, that she had “ gone through but 
she did not feel the necessity. She would have preferred 
much to know what was going to be done, to talk over every- 
thing, to be able to express without further sense that they 
were j^reinature and inappropriate as much as it would be ex- 
pedient to exjiress of her own wishes. The absolute repres- 
sion of tliose five dark days, during which she had said noth- 
ing, had been almost more intolerable to lier than years of the 
repression which was past. When you know that nothing 
you can do or say is of any use, and that whatsoever struggle 
you may make will be wholly ineffectual to change your lot, 
it is comparatively easy, in tlie composure of impossibility, to 
keei) yourself down ; but when all at once you become again 
master of your own fate, even a temporary curb becomes in- 
tolerable. 

Mrs. Warrender went into lier room by the comf)ulsion of her 
son and conventional i)ro[)riety, and was sui:>posed to lie down 
on the sofa and rest for an hour or two. Her maid arranged 
the cushions for her, threv/ a shawl over her feet, and left her 
on tip-toe, shutting the door with elaborate precautions. Mrs. 
Warrender remained still for nearly half an hour. She wept 


81 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

^vith a strange mixture of feelings ; partly out of a poignant 
sense of the fictitiousness of all these observances by which 
people were supposed to show “respect” to the dead, and 
partly out of a real aching of the heart and miserable sense 
that even now, that certainly by and by, the man who had 
l>een so all-important a little while ago would be as if ho had 
not been. She wept for him, and yet at the same time Avept 
because she could not weep more for him, because the place 
which knew him had already begun to know him no more, 
and because of the sham affliction Avith Avhich they Avere all 
supplementing the true. It was she Avho shed the truest 
tears, but it was she also who rebelled most at the make- 
believe which convention forced upon her ; and the usual sense 
of hopeless exasperation Avas strong in her mind. After a 
while she threw off the shaAvl from her feet and the cushions 
tnat supported her shoulders, and got up and walked about 
the room, looking out upon the afternoon sunshine and the 
trees that were turning their shadoAA’s to the east. How she 
longed, Avith a fervor scarcely explainable, not at all compre- 
hensible to most people, to leave the place, to open her wings 
in a large atmosphere, to get free ! 

At half past four o’clock Minnie and Chatty AA’^ent down to 
tea. They were to the minute, and their mother heard them 
Avith a half smile. It was always time enough for her to 
smooth her hair and her collar, and take a neAv handkerchief 
from her drawer, when she heard the sisters close their door. 
She went downstans after them, in her gOAvn covere<l with 
crape, Avith her snowy cap, Avhich gave dignity to her a^^pear- 
ance. Her widow’s dress AA-as A^ery becoming to lier, as it is 
to so many people. She had a pretty complexion, pure red 
and Avhite, though the color was perhaps a little broken, and 
not so smooth as a girl’s ; and her eyes were broAvn and 
bright. NotAvithstanding the AA^eeks of watching she had gone 
through, the strain of everything that had passed, she made 
little shoAV of her trouble. Her eye was not dim, nor her 
natural force abated. The girls Avere dull in complexion and 
aspect, but their mother Avas not so. As she came into the 
room there came Avith her 'a brightness, a sense of living, 
Avhich was inappropriate to the hour and the j^lace. 

“Where is Theo? ” she asked. 

“He is coming in presently ; at least, I called to him as he 
Avent out, and told him tea w'as ready, and he said he would 
be in presently,” Chatty replied. 


32 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 

“ I wish he would have stayed, if it had even been in the 
grounds, to-day,” said Minnie. “ It will look so strange to see 
him walking about as if nothing had happened.” 

“ He has been very good ; he has conformed to all our little 
rules,” said the mother, with a sigh. 

“ Little rules, mamma ? Don’t you think it of importance, 
then, that every respect” — 

“My dear,” said Mrs. WaiTender, “ I am tired of hearing of 
every respect. Theo was always respectful and affectionate. 
I would not misconstrue him even if it should prove that he 
has taken a walk.” 

“ On the day of dear papa’s funeral !” cried Minnie, Avith a 
voice unmoA’ed. 

Mrs. Warrender turned away without any reply ; partly be- 
cause the tears sprang into her eyes at the matter-of-fact 
statement, and partly because her patience was exhausted. 

‘ ‘ Have you settled, mamma, what he is going to do V ” said 
Chatty. 

“It is not for mo to decide. He is twenty-one; he is his 
own master. You have not,” Mrs. Warrender said, “taken 
time to think yet of the change in our cii'cumstances. Theo is 
now master here. EA^^rything is his to do as he pleases.” 

“ Everything I” said the girls in chorus, opening their eyes. 

“I mean, of course, everything but what is yours and what 
is mine. You know your father’s aauII. He has been A^ery just, 
A^ery kind, as he ahv^ays Avas.” She paused a little, and then 
Avent on : “ But your brother, as you knoAv, is now the master 
here. We must miderstand Avhat his Avishes are before Ave 
can settle on anything.” 

“ Why shouldn’t Ave go on as Ave ahvays ha\"e done?” said 
Minnie. “ Theo is too young to marry ; besides, it AA’ould not 
be decent for a time, even if he Avanted to, Avhich I am sure he 
does not. I don’t see why we should make any change. 
There is noAvhere we can be so Avell as at home.” 

“ Oh, noAvhere !” said Chatty. 

Their mother sat and looked at them, Avitli a dull tlwob 
in her heart. They had sentiment and right on their side, and 
nature, too. Everybody Avould agree that for a bereaved 
family there AA^as no place so good as liome, — the house in 
Avhich they Avere bom and Avhere they had liA’od all their life. 
She looked at tliem blankly, feeling liow unnatural, Iioav 
almost wicked, Avas the longing in her oavh mind to get aAvay, 
to escape into Gome place Avhere she could take largo breaths 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


33 


and feel a wide sky over her. But liow was she to say it, how 
even to conclude what she had been sa3dng, feeling ho^v inliar- 
monious it was with everything around ? 

“Still,” she said meekly, “I am of Mr. Longstaffe’s opinion 
that everything should be fully understood between us from 
the first. If we all went on just the same, it might be very 
pamful to Theo, when the time came for him to marry (not 
now ; of course there is no question of that now), to feel tlint 
he could not do so without turning his mother and sisters out- 
of-doors.” 

“ Why should he marry, so long as he has us? It is not as 
if he had nobody, and wanted some one to make him a home. 
What would he do with the house if we were to leave it? 
Would he let it? I don't believe lie could let it. It would set 
everybody talking. Why should he turn his inother and 
sisters out-of-doors? Oh, I never thought of anything so 
dreadful ! ” cried Minnie and Chatty, one uttering one excla- 
mation, and another the other. They were very literal, and in 
tlic minds of both the grievance was at once taken for granted . 
“ Oh, I never could have tliought such a thing of Theo, — our 
own brother, and younger than we are ! ” 

The mother had made two or three ineffectual attempts to 
.stem the tide of indignation. “Theo is thinking of nothing of 
the kind,” she said at last, when they were out of breath. “ I 
only say that he must not feel he lias but that alternative 
Avhen the time comes, when he may wish — when it may be ex- 
pedient— No, no, he has never thought of such a thing. I 
only say it for the sake of the future, to forestall after-compli- 
cations.” 

“Oh, I wish you wouldn't frighten one, mamma ! I thougiC 
you had heard about some girl he had picked up at Oxford, er 
something. I thought Ave should have to turn out, to leaA’e 
the Warren — wliich Avould brealc my heart.” 

“And mine too, — and mine too !” cried Chatty. 

“ Where we have always been so happy, Avith nothing to 
disturb us ! *’ 

“Oh, so happy! always the same, one day after another! 
It will be different,” said the younger sister, crying a little, 
“ now that dear papa— But still no place ever can be like 
home.” 

And there was the guilty woman sitting by, listening to 
eA’erything they said ; feeling Iioav good, Iioav natural, it was, 
■ — and still more natural, still more seemly, for her, at her fige. 


34 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

than for them at theirs,— yet conscious that tins house was a 
prison to her, and that of all things in the world that vvliich 
she wanted most was to be turned out and driven away ! 

“My dears,” she said, not darmg to betray this feeling, “if 
I have frightened you, I did not mean to do it. The liouse in 
Highcombe, you know, is mine. It will be our liome if— if 
anything should liappen. I thought it might be wise to have 
tliat ready, to make it oui* headquarters, in case— in case Tiieo 
should caiTy out the improvements.” 

“Improvements!” they cried with one voice, “What im- 
provements ? How could the Warren be improved ? ” 

“ You must not speak to me in such a tone. Tliere has 
always been a question of cutting down some of the trees.” 

“But papa would never agree to it; papa said lie would 
never consent to it.” 

“ I think,” said IMrs. Warrender, with a guilty blush, “ tliat 
he — had begun to change his mind.” 

“ Only when he was growing weak, then,— only when you 
over-persuaded him.” 

“ Minnie ! I see that your brother was right, and that this 
is not a time for any discussion,” Mi-s. Warrender said. 

There was again a silence : and they all came bacli to the 
original state of mind from which they started, and remem- 
bered that quiet and subdued tones and an incapacity for the 
consideration of secular subjects were the proper mental atti- 
tude for all that remained of this day. 

It Avas not, hoAA^ever, long that this becoming condition 
lasted. Sounds Avere heard as of voices in the distance, and 
then some one running at full speed across the gravel drive in 
front of the door, and through the hall. Minnie had risen up 
in horror to stop this interruption, Avhen the door buret open, 
and Theo, pale and excited, rushed in. “Mother,” he cried, 
“there has been a dreadful accident. Markland has been 
thrown by those Avild brutes of his, and I don’t knoAV Avhat has 
happened to him. It Avas just at the gates, and they are bring- 
ing him here. There is no help for it. Where can they take 
him to ? ” 

Mrs. Warrender rose to her feet at once ; her heart rising too 
almost Avith pleasure to the thrill of a new event. She hurried 
out to open the door of a large vacant room on the ground 
floor. “What Avas Lord Markland doing here?” she said. 
“ He ought to have reached home long ago.” 

“ He has been in that house in the Aullage, mother. They 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 35 

seemed to think everybody would understand. I don’t know 
what he has to do there.” 

“ He has nothing to do there. Oh, Theo, that poor young 
wife of his ! And had he the heart to go from — from — us, in 
our trouble — there ! ” 

“He seems to have j^aid for it, whatever was wrong in it. 
Go back to the drawing-room, for here they are coming.” 

“ Theo, they are carrying him as if he were ” — 

“ Go back to the drawing-room, mother. Whatever it is, it 
camiot be helped,” Theodore said. He did not mean it, but 
there was something in liis tone which reminded everybody — 
the seiwants, who naturally came rushing to see what was the 
matter, and Mrs. Warrender who withdrew at his bidding — 
that ho was now the master of the house. 

V. 

2Iarkland was a much more important place than the 
hv arren. It was one of the chief places in the county, in 
which the family had for many generations held so great a 
position. It was a largo building, with all that irregularity of 
architecture which is so dear to the English mind,— a record of 
the generations wlio had passed tlnough it and added to it, in 
itself a noble historical monument, full of indications of the past. 
But it lost much of its effect upon the mind from the fact that 
it was in much less good order than is usual wnth houses of 
similar pretensions ; and above all because the wood around it 
had been vrantonly and v.mstefully cut, and it stood almost 
unsheltered upon its little eminence, with only a few seedling 
trees, weedy and long, like boys who had outgrown their 
strength, straggling about the heights. The house itself was 
tlius left bare to all the winds. An old cedar, very large but 
very feeble, in the tottering condition of old age to which some 
trees, like men, come, with two or three of its longest branches 
torn off by storm and decay, interposed its dark foliage over 
the lower roof of the lowest wing, and gave a little appearance 
of shelter, and a few Lombardy poplars and light-leaved young 
birches made a thin and interrui)ted screen to the east ; but 
the house stood clear of these light and frivolous young 
attendants in a nakedness whicli made the spectator shiver. 
The wood in the long avenue had been thinned in almost the 
same ruthless way, but here and there were shady corners, 
where old trees, not worth much in the market, but very 
valuable to the landscape, laid their 1 leads together like ancient 


8G .1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

retainers, and rustled and nodded tlieir disapproval of the 
devastation around. 

Young Lady Markland, with her boy, on the afternoon of the 
Jul}' day on which Idr. Warrender was buried, vralked up and 
down for some time in front of the house, casting many anx- 
ious looks down the avenue, by which, in its present denuded 
state, every approaching visitor was so easily visible. She was 
still very young, though her child was about eight ; she having 
been married, so to speak, out of the nursery, a young creature 
of sixteen, a motherless girl, with no one to investigate too 
closely into the character of the young lover, who was not 
much more than a boy himself, and between whom and liis 
girlish bride a hot, foolish young love had sprung up like a 
mushroom, in a week or two of acquaintance. She was 
1 wenty-five, but did not look her age. She was small in stature, 
— one of those exquisitely neat little women, whose perfection 
of costume and appearance no external accident disturbs. 
Her dross had the look of being molded on lier light little fig- 
ure ; her hah' was like brown satin, smooth as a mirror end 
reflecting the light. She did not possess the large grace of 
abstract beauty. There was nothing statuesque, nothing 
majestic, about her, but a kind of mild perfection, a fitness 
and harmony which called forth the approval of the more 
serious-minded portion of humanity as well as the admiration 
of the younger and more frivolous. 

It was generally known in the county that this young lady 
had far from a happy life. She had been married in haste and 
over-confidence by guardians who, if not glad to be rid of her, 
were at least please{l to feel that their responsibility was over, 
and the orphan safe in her husband’s care, without taking too 
much pains to prove that tne husband was worthy of that 
charge, or that there was much reasonable prospect of his 
devotion to it. Young Markland, it was understood, had sown 
Ills wild oats somewhat plentifully at Oxford and cls.ewhere ; 
and.it was therefore supposed, with very little logic, that tlier j 
were no more to sow. But this had not proved to be the case, 
and almost before his young wife had reached the age of 
understanding, and Avas able to put two an<l t'vo together, lie 
liad run tlirough the fortune she brought him, — not a very 
large one, — and made her heart ache, Avliich v/as worse, as 
liearts under twenty ought never to learn how to ache. She 
was not a happy wife. The co'untry all about, the servants, 
and eA^ery villager near kneAv it, but not from Lady Markland. 


37 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 

Slio was very loyal, wliich is a noble quality, and very proud, 
which in some cases does duty as a noble quality, and is 
accepted as sucli. What were the secrets of lier maiTied life no 
one ever heard from her ; and fortunately those griefs which 
were open to all the woi'ld were unknown to her. She did not 
know, save vaguely, in what society her husband spent the 
I frequent absences which separated him from her. She did not 
know what kind of friends he made, what lionses ho frequent- 
ed, even in his own neighborhood ; and she was still under the 
impression that many of her wrongs were known by herself 
alone, and that his character had suffered but little in the eyes 
of the world. 

There was one person, however, from whom she had not 
been able to hide these wrongs, and that was her child, — her 
only child. There had been two other babies, dead at their 
birth or immediately after, but Geoff was the only one who had 
lived, her constant companion, counselor, and aid. At eight 
years old ! Those who had never known what a child can be 
at that age, when thus intmsted with the perilous deposit of 
the family secrets, and elevated to the post which his father 
ought but did not care to flil, wore apt to think little Geoff's 
development unnatural ; and others thought, with reason, that 
it was bad for the little fellow to be so constantly with his 
mother, and it Avas sai l among the IMarkland relations that as 
he was now groAving a great boy he ouglit to be sent to school. 
Poor little Gooff ! He Avms not a great boy, nor ever aa'ouIvI bo. 
He was small, chetif, unbeautiful ; a little sandy-haired, sandy- 
cornplexioned, insignificant boy, AA-ith no features to speak of 
and no stamina, short for his age and of uncertain health, Avhich 
had indeed been the first reason of that constant association Avith 
his mother Avhicli Avas supposed to be so bad for him. During 
the first years of his life, Avhich had been broken by continual 
illness, it was only her i^erpetual care that kept him aliv^c at ail. 
She had neA^er left him, ne\"er given up the charge of him to 
any one ; Avatched him by night and liA^ed Avith him by day. 
His careless father would sometimes say, in one of those brags 
AAdiich show a heart of shame even in the breast of the vicious, 
that if he had not left her so much to herself, if he had dragged, 
her about into society, as so many men did their AviA’-es, she 
never would liaA-e kept her boy ; and perhaps there Avas some 
truth in it. 

While he pursued his pleasures in regions A\diere no Avife 
could accompany him, she Avas free to devote all her life, and 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


O ) 

to find out every new expedient thac skill or science had 
thought of to lengthen out the feeble days, anl to gain time to 
make a cure possible. He would never be very strong was the 
verdict now, but with care he ^vould live : and it was she who 
had over again breathed life into him. This made the tie a 
double one ; not out of gratitude, for the child knew of no such 
secondary sentiment, but out of the redoubled lo^e which their 
constant association called forth. They di I not talk together 
of any family sorro ws. It was never intimated between them 
that anything wrong happened when papa was late and 
mamma anxious, or when there were people at Markland who 
were not nice, — oh, not a word ; but the child was anxious as 
well as mamma. He too got the habit of watching, listening 
for the hurried step, the wild rattle of the phaeton with those 
tw’o wdld horses, wdiich Lord Marklan 1 insisted on driving up 
the avenue. He knew everything, partly by observation, 
partly l:>y instinct. Hj w^alke 1 whh his mother now, clinging 
with both hands to her arm, his head nearly on a level with 
her shoulder, and close, close to it, almost touching, his little 
person confused in the outline of her dress. The sunshine lay 
full along the line of the avenue, just broken in two or three 
places by the shadow of those old and useless trees, but without 
a speck upon it or a sound. 

“ I don’t think papa can be coming, Geolf, and it is time you 
had your tea.” 

‘ ‘ Never mind me. I’ll go and take it by myself, if you 
want me to, and you can wait here.” 

“ Why ? ” she said. “ It will not bring him home a moment 
sooner, as you and I know.” 

No, but it feels as if it made him come ; and you can see 
from the very gate. It takes a long tune to drive up the 
avenue. Oh, yes, stop here ; you will like that best.” 

‘‘ I am so silly,” she said, which was her constant excuse. 
“When you are grown up, Geoff, I shall always be watching 
for you.” 

“That you shan’t,” said tlie boy. “I’ll never leave you. 
You have had enough of that.” 

“ Oh, yes, my darling, you will leave me. I shall want you 
to leave me. A boy cannot be always with his mother. Come, 
now, I am going to be strong-minded. Let us go in. I am a 
little tired, 1 think.’* 

“Perhaps the funeral was later than he thought,” said thfe; 
Ixjy. 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


39 


‘ ‘ Perhaps. It was very kind of papa to go. He does not 
like things of that kind ; and he was not over-fond of Mr. 
Warrender, who, though he was very good, was a little dull. 
Papa does’n't like dull people.” 

“ No. Do you like Tlieo Warrender, mamma? ” 

“ Well enough,” said Lady Markland. “I don’t Icnow him 
very much.” 

“ I like him,” said the child. “ He knows a lot : he told me 
how to do that Latin. He is the sort of man I should like for 
my tutor.” 

“ But he is a gentleman, Geoff. I mean, he would never be 
a tutor. He is as well off as we are — perhaps better.” 

“ Are men tutors only when they are not well off?” 

“Well, dear, generally when they require the money. You 
could not expect young Mr. Warrender to come here and take 
a great deal of trouble, merely for the pleasure of teacliiiig 
you.” 

“Why not?” said Geoff. “ Is’n’t it a fine tiling to teach 
children? It was you that said so, mamma.” 

“ For me, dear, that am your mother ; but not for a gentle- 
man who is not even a relation.” 

“Gentlemen, to be sure, are different,” said Geoff, ^vith an 
air of deliberation. “ There’s papa, for instance ” — 

His mother threv/ up her hand suddenly. * ‘ Hark, Gooff ! 
Do you hear anything ? ” 

They had come in-doors while this talk was going on, and 
were now seated in a large but rather shabby sitting-room, 
which was full of Geoff’s toys and books. The windows 
were wide open, but the sounds from without came in sub- 
dued ; for this room was at the back of the house, and at 
some distance from the avenue. They were both silent for 
some minutes, listening, and then Lady Markland said, with 
an air of relief, “Papa is coming. I hear the sound of the 
phaeton.” 

“ That is not the phaeton, mamma ; there is only one horse,” 
said Geoff, whose senses were very keen. When Lady Mark- 
land had listened a little longer, she acquiesced in this 
opinion. 

“ It will be some one coming to call,” she said, with an air of 
resignation ; and then they went on with their talk. 

“ Gentlemen are different ; they are not given the charge of 
the children like you.” 

“ However, in books,” said Geoff, “ the fathers very often 


40 


COUNTRY GENTL'YaAN. 


are a great deal of good ; they tell you all sorts of tilings. But 
liooks are not very like real life ; do you think they are? Even 
Frank, in Miss Edgeworth, though you say lie is so good, 
does’n’t do things like me. I mean, I should never think of 
doing things like him ; and no little girl would ever be so silly. 
Now, mamma, say true, what do you think? Would any 
little girl ever be so silly as to want the big bottle out of a 
physic shop? Girls may be silly, but not so bad as that.” 

“Perhaps, let us hope, she did’n’t know so much about 
physic shops, as you call them, as you do, my poor boy. I 
wonder wlio can be calling to-day, Geoff ! I should have 
thought that everybody near would be thinking of the Warren- 
ders, and — It is coming very fast, don’t you think ? But it 
does not sound like the phaeton.” 

“Oh, no, it is not the phaeton. I’ll go and look,” said 
Geoff. lie came back in a moment, crying, “ I told you — it’s 
a brougham ! Coming at such a pace ! ” 

“ I wonder who it can be ! ” Lady Markland said. 

And when the boy resumed his talk she listened with inat- 
tention, trying in vain to keep her interest fixed on what he 
was saying, making vague replies, turning over a hundred 
possibilities in her mind, but by some strange dullness, such as 
is usual enough in similar circumstances, never thinking of 
the real cause. What danger could there bo to Markland in a 
drive of half a dozen miles, in the daylight ; what risk in Mr. 
Warrender’s funeral? The sense that something which was 
not an ordinary visit was coming grew stronger and stronger 
upon her, but of the news which w'as about to reach her she 
never thought at ail. 

At last the door opened. She rose hastily, unable to con- 
trol herself, to meet it, whatever it was. It was not a cere- 
monious servant announcing a visit, but Theo Warrender, pale 
as death itself, with a whole tragic Ami nine in his face, but 
speechless, not knowing, now that he stood before her, what 
to say, who appeared in the doorway. He had hurried off, 
bringing his mother’s little brougham to carry the young wife 
to her husband’s bedside ; but it was not until he looked into 
her face and heard the low cry that burst from her that lie 
realized what he had to tell. He had forgotten that a man re- 
quires all Ills skill and no small preparation to enable him to 
tell a young woman that her husband, wlio left her in perfect 
health a few hours ago, was now on the brink of death. Ho 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 41. 

stopped short on the threshold, awed by this thought, and only 
stared at her, not knowing what to say. 

“Mr. Warrender!” she said, with the utmost surprise; 
then, with growing wonder and alarm, “ You — Something 
has happened ! ” 

“ Lady Markland — yes, there has been an accident. My 
mother — sent me with the brougham. I came olf at once. 
Will you go back with me? The horse is very fast, and you 
can be there in half an hour.” 

This was all he could find to say. She went up to him, hold- 
ing out her hands in an almost speechless appeal. ‘ ‘ Why for 
me? Why for me? What has it got to do with me ? ” 

He did not know how to answer her question. “Lady 
Markland ! ” he cried, “ your husband”— and said no more. 

She was at the door of the brougham in a moment. She had 
not taken off her garden hat, and she wanted no preparation. 
The cliild sprang to her side, caught her arm, and went with 
her without a word or question, as if that were undeniably his 
place. Everybody knew and remarked upon the singular 
union between the neglected young wife and her only child, 
but Warrender felt, he could scarcely tell why, that it an- 
noyed and iiTitated him at this moment. When he put her 
into the carriage, and the boy clambered after her, he was un- 
accountably vexed by it,— so much vexed that his profound 
sympathy for the poor lady seemed somehow checked. In- 
stead of following them into the carriage, which was not a 
very roomy one, he shut the door upon them sharply. “ I will 
walk,” he said. “lam not needed. Right, Jarvis, as fast as 
you can go ; ” he stood by to see tham dash off. Lady Mark- 
land giving him a suiqjrised yet half-relieved look, in the pale- 
ness of her anxiety and misery. Then it suddenly became 
apparent to him that he had done vvdiat was best and most del- 
icate, though without meaning it, out of the sudden annoy- 
ance which had risen within him. It was the best thing he 
could have done, but to walk six miles at the end of a fa- 
tiguing and trying day was not agreeable, and the sense of 
irritation was strong in him, “ If ever I have anything to do 
witn that boy”— he said involuntarily within himself. But 
what could he ever have to do with the boy, who probably by 
this time, little puny thing that he was, was Lord IMarkland, 
and the owner of all this great, bare, unhappy-looking place, 
eaten up by the locusts of waste and ruin. 

The butler, an old servant, had been anxiously trying all 


43 


A COUNTRY GENTLE^IAN. 

this time to catch his eye. He came up now, as Warrender 
turned to follow on foot the carriage, which was already al- 
most out of sight. “ I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, with the 
servant’s usual formula, “but I’ve sent round for the dogcart, 
if you’ll be so kind as to wait a few minutes. None of us, sir, 
but feels your kindness, coming yourself for my lady, and 
leaving her alone in her trouble, poor dear. Mr. Warrender, 
sir, if I may make so bold, what is the fact about my lord ? 
Yes, sir, I heard what you told my lady ; but I thought you 
would nat’rally say the best, not to frighten her. Is there any 
hope ? ” 

“Not much, I fear. He was thrown out violently, and 
struck against a tree ; they are afraid tha his spine is in- 
jured.” 

“Oh, sir, so young! and oh, so careless. God help us, Mr. 
Warrender, we never know a step before us, do we, sir? If it’s 
the spine, it will be no pain ; and him so joky, more than his 
usual, going off them very steps this morning, though he was 
going to a funeral. Oh, Mr. Warrender, that I should spen’: 
so light, forgetting — God bless us, what an awful thing, sir, 
after what has happened already, to happen in jmur house !” 

Warrender answered with a nod, — he had no heart to speak ; 
and refusing the dogcart he set out on his walk home. An ex- 
quisite spring night : everything harsli stilled out of the at- 
mosphere ; the sounds of labor ceasing ; a calm as of pro- 
foundest peace stealing over everytliing. The soft and sub- 
dued pain of his natural grief, hushed by that fatigue and ex- 
haustion of both body and mind which o. long stniin produces, 
was not out of accord with the calm oi nature. But very dif- 
ferent was the harsh note of the ne.v calamity, which had 
struck not the house m which the tragedy was being enacted, 
but this one, which lay bare and naked in the last light of the 
sinking sun. So young and so careless ! So young, so waste- 
ful of life and all that life had to give, and now parted from 
it, taken from it, at a blow ! 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


43 


VI. 

Lord Markland died at the Warren that night. He never 
recovered consciousness, nor knew that his wife was by his 
side through all the dreadful darkening of the spring evening,^ 
which seemed to image forth in every new tone of gathering 
gloom the going out of life. They told her as much as was 
necessary of the circumstances, — how, the distance between 
the Warren and the churchyard being so short, and the whole 
cortege on foot. Lord Markland’s carriage had been left in the 
village ; how he had stayed there to luncheon (presumably 
with the rector, for no particulars were given, nor did the 
bewildered young woman ask for any), which was the reason 
of his delay. The rest was very easily explained : everybody 
had said to him that some accident,” would happen one day 
or other with the horses he insisted on driving, and the prophesy 
had been fulfilled. Such prophesies are always fulfilled . Lady 
Markland was very quiet, accepting that extraordinary revolu- 
tion in her life with a look of marble, and words that betrayed 
notliing. Was she broken-hearted ; was she only stunned by the 
suddenness, the awe, of such a catastrophe? The boy clinging 
to her, yet without a tear, pale and silent, but never, even when 
,4he words were said that all was over, breaking forth into any 
^^^ildish outburst. He sat on the floor in her shadow, even 
'''^i^dien she was watching by the deathbed, never left her, keep- 
^^g always a bold upon her arm, her hand, or her dress. Mrs. 
^Bv"arrender would have taken him away, and put him to bed, 
W-it was so bad for him ; but the boy opposed a steady resist- 
ance, and Lady Markland put down her hand to him, not 
seeing how wrong it was to indulge him, all the ladies said. 
After this, of course nothing could be done, and he remained 
with her through all that followed. 

What followed was strange enough to have afforded a scene 
for a tragedy. Lady Markland asked to speak to Warrender, 
who had retired, leaving his mother, as was natural, to manage 
0Y'(3j*yt,hing. He came to her at the door of the room which 
had so suddenly, with its bare, unused look, in the darkness of 
a few flickering candles, become a sort of presence chamber 
filled with the solemnity of dying. Her little figu|^^^so neat 
and orderly, an embodiment of the settled peace Crld calm of 
life having nothing to do with tragedies, with the child close 


u 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


pressed against her side, his pale face looking as hers did, ]!ale 
too and stony, never altogether passed from the memor\^ of tho 
man who came, reluctant, almost afraid, to hear what she had 
to say to liim. It was like a picture against the darkness of 
the room, — a darkness both physical and moral, which centered 
in the curtained gloom behind, about which two shadowy 
figures were busy. Often and wnth very different sentiments 
he saw this gi'oup again, but never wholly forgot it, or had it 
effaced from the depths of his memory. 

“ Mr. Warrender,’^ she said, in a voice which was very low, 
yet he thought might have been heard all over the house, “I 
want you to help me.” 

‘ ‘ Whatever I can do,” he began, with some fervor, for lie 
was young, and his heart was touched. 

“I want,” she continued, “to carry him home at once. I 
know it will not be easy, but it is night, and all is quiet. You 
are a man ; you will know better how it can be done. Manage 
it for me.” 

Warrender was entirely unprepared for such a commission. 
“^Tliere will be gi’eat difficulties, dear Lady Markland,” he 
said. “It is a long way. I am sure my mother would not 
wish you to think of her. This is a house of death. Let him 
stay.” 

She gave him a sort of smile, a softening of her stony face, 
and put out her hand to him. “ Do it for me,” she said. She 
was not at all moved by his objections, — perhaps she did not 
even hear them ; but when she had thus repeated her command, 
as a queen might have done, she turned back mto the room, 
and sat down, to wait it seemed, until that command vv^as ac- 
complished. Warrender went away with a most peiplexed 
and troubled mind. He was half jfieased, underneath all, that 
she should liave sent for him and charged him with this office, 
but bewildered with the extraordinary commission, and not 
knowing what to do. 

“What is it, Theo? What did she want with you?” his 
sisters cried, in subdued voices, but eager to know everything 
about Lady Markland, who had been as the stars in the sky to 
them a little while before. 

He told them in a few words, and they filled the air witii 
whispered exclamations. “ How odd, how strange; oh, how 
unusual, Theo ! People will say it is our doing. They will say, 
How dreadful of the Warrenders ! Oh, tell her you can’t do 
it ! How could you do it, in the middle of the night ! ” 


45 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

“ That is just what I don't know,” Warrender rejoined. 

“ Mr. Tlieo,” said the old man, who was not dignified with 
the name of l^utler, “ the lady is quite right. I can’t tell you 
how it’s to be done, but gardener, he is a very handy man, and 
he will know. The middle of the night, — that’s just what 
makes it easy, young ladies ; instead o’ watching and waiting, 
the ’holl of us ’ull get to bed.” 

“ That is all you re thinking of, Josepli.” 

“ Well, it’s a deal, sir, after all that’s been going on in this 
house,” Joseph said, with an aggrieved air. He had to provide 
supper, which was a thing unknown at the Warren, after all 
the trouble that every one had been put to. He was himself 
of opinion that to be kept up beyond your usual hours, and 
subjected to unexpected fatigues, made “a bit of supper” 
needful even for the uncomfortable and incomprehensible peo- 
ple whom he called the quality. They \Yere a poorish lot, and 
he had a mild contempt for them, and to get them supper was 
a hardship ; still, it was his own suggestion, and he was bound 
to caiTy it cut. 

It is unnecessary to enter into all Warrender’s perplexities 
and all tlie expedients that were suggested. At last the handy 
gardener and himself liit upon a plan by which Lady Mark- 
land’s wishes could be carried out. She sat still in the gloomy 
room where her husband lay dead, waiting till they should be 
ready ; doubting nothing, as little disturbed by any difficulty 
as if it had been the simplest commission in the world whicli 
she had given the young man. Geoff sat at her feet, leaning 
against her, holding her hand. It is to be supposed that he 
slept now and then, as the slow moments went on, but when- 
ever any one spoke to his mother his eyes would be seen gleam- 
ing against the darkness of her dress. They sat there waiting, 
perfectly, still, with the candles flickering faintly about the 
room in the night air that breathed in through the open 
windows. The dark curtains had been drawn round the bed. 
It was like a catafalque looming darkly behind. Mrs. Warren- 
der had used every persuasion to induce her guest to come into 
another room, to take something, to rest, to remember all that 
remained for her to do, and not waste her strength, — all those 
formulas which come naturally to the lips at such a moment. 
Lady Markland only answered with that movement of her face 
whicli was intended for a smile and a shake of her head. 

At last the preparations were all complete. Tlie night was 
even more exquisite than the evening had been ; it was more 


46 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

still, every sound having died out of the earth except those 
which make up silence,— the rustling among the branches, the 
whirr of unseen insects, the falling of a leaf or a twig. The 
moon threw an unbroken light over the broad fields ; the sky 
spread out all its stars, in myriads and myriads, faintly radi- 
ant, softened by the larger light ; the air breathed a delicate, 
scarcely perceptible fragrance of growing grass, moist earth, 
and falling dew. How sweet, how calm, how full of natural 
happiness ! Through this soft atmosphere and ethereal radi- 
ance a carriage made its way that was improvised with all the 
reverence and t3ndemess possible, in which lay the young 
man, dead, cut off in the very blossom and glory of his days, 
followed by another, in which sat the young woman who had 
been his wife. What she was thinking of who could tell ? Of 
their half-childish love and wooing, of the awaking of her 
own young soul to trouble and disappointment, of her many 
dreary days and years ; or of the sudden severance, Avithout a 
moment’s warning, without a leave-taking, a Avord, or a look ? 
Perhaps all these things, noAv for a moment distinct, noAv 
mingling confusedly together, formed the current of her 
thoughts. The child, clasped in her arms, slept upon her 
shoulder ; nature being too strong at last for that Avhich Avas 
beyond nature, the identifiv .dion of liis childish soul Avith that 
of his mother. She a\ us glad that he slept, and glad to be 
silent, alone, the soft ait blowing in her face, the darkness 
encircling her like a A^eil. 

Warrender went with this melancholy cortege, making its 
Avay slowly across the sleeping country. He saw everything 
done that could be done : the dead man laid on his oavu bed ; 
the living Avcinan, in whom he felt so much more interest, re- 
turned to the shelter of her home and the tendance of her own 
serA^ants. His part in the Avhole matter Avas over when he 
stepped back into the brougham Avhich she had left. The 
Wan’enders had seen but little of the Marklands, though they 
were so near. The habits of the young lord had naturally been 
little approved by Theo Warrender’s careful parents ; and his 
manners, when the young intellectualist from Oxford met him, 
AA^ere revolting at once to his good taste and good breeding. 
On the other hand, the Wairenders wwe but small people Li 
comparison, and any intimacy A\nth Lord and Lady Markland 
was almost impossible. It Avas considered by all the neighbors 
“a great compliment” Avhen Lord Markland came to ihe 
funeral. Ah, poor Markland, had he not come to the fimeral! 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


47 


Yet how vain to say so, for liis fate had been long prophesied, 
and what did it matter in what special circumstances it came 
to pass ! But Warrender felt, as he left the house, that there 
could be no longer distance and i)artial acquaintance between 
the two families. Their lines of life — or was it of death? — ■ 
had crossed and been woven together. He felt a faint thrill 
go through him, — a thrill of consciousness, of anticixjation, he 
could not tell what. Certainly it was not possible that the old 
blank of non-connection could ever exist again. She, to whom 
he had scarcely spoken before, who had been so entirely out 
of his sphere, had now come into it so strangely, so closely, 
that she could never be separated from his thoughts. She 
might break violently the visionary tie between them, — she 
might break it, angry to have been drawn into so close a 
relation to any strangers, — but it never could be shaken off. 

He drove quickly down the long bare avenue, where all was 
so naked and clear, and put his head out of the carriage win- 
dow to look back at the house, standing out bare and defense- 
less in the full moonlight, showing faintly, tlrrough the white 
glory which blazed all around, a little pitiful glimmer of 
human lights in the closed windows, the watch-lights of the 
dead. It seemed a long time to the young man since in his 
own house these watch-lights had been extinguished. The 
previous event seemed to have become dim to him, though he 
was so much more closely connected with it, in the presence 
of this, which was more awful, more terrible. He tried to re- 
turn to the thoughts of the morning, when his father was 
naturally in all things his first occupation, but it was impos- 
sible to do it. Instead of the thoughts which became him, as 
now in his father’s place, with so much power, the fortunes of 
his family, so much depending upon him, all that his mind 
would follow were the events of this afternoon, so full of fate. 
He saw Lady Markland stand, with the child clinging to her, 
in the dim room, the shrouded bed and indistinct attendant 
figures beliind, the dimly flickering lights. Why had she so 
claimed his aid, asked for his service, with that certainty of 
being obeye^d ? Her every word trembled in his ear still, — they 
were very few ; they seemed to be laid up there in some hidden 
repository", and came out and said themselves over again when 
he willed, moving him as he never had been moved before. 
He made many efforts to throw off this involuntary preoccu- 
pation as the carriage rolled quickly along ; the tired horse 
quickening its pace as it felt the attraction of home, the tired 


4H 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


coachman letting it go almost at its own pleasure, the broad 
moonlight fields, with their dark fringes of hedge, spinning 
past. Then the village went past him, with all its sleeping 
houses, the church standing up like a protecting shadow. He 
looked out again at this straining his eyes to see the dark spot 
where his father was lying, the first night in the bosom of tlie 
earth : and this thought brought him back for a moment to 
himself. But the next, as the carriage glided on into tho 
shadow of the trees, and the overgrown copses of the Warren 
received him into their shadow, this other intrusive tragedy, 
this story which was not his, returned and took possession of 
him once more. To see her standing there, speaking so 
calmly, with the soft tones that perhaps would have been im- 
perious in other circumstances: “Do it for me.” No ques- 
tion whether it could be done, or if he could do it. One 
thing only there was that jarred throughout all, — the child 
that was always there, forming part of her. “If ever I have 
anything to do with that boy” — Warrender said to himself; 
and then there was a moment of dazzle and giddiness, and 
the carriage stopped, and a door opened, and he found himself 
standing out in the fresh, soft night wdth his mother, on the 
threshold of his own home. There was a light in the hall be- 
hind her, where she stood, with the whiteness of the widow's 
cap, which was still a novelty and strange feature in her. 
waiting till he should return. It was far on in the night, and 
except herself the household was asleep. She came out to 
him, wistfully looking in his face by the light of the moon. 

“You did everything for her, Theo ? ” 

“ All that I could. I saw him laid upon his bed. There was 
nothing more for me to do.” 

“ Are you very tired, my boy? You have done so much.” 

“ Not tired at all. Come out with me a little. I can’t go in 
yet. It is a lovely night.” 

“Oh, Theo, lovely and full of light !— the trees, and the 
bushes, and every blade of grass sheltering something that is 
living ; and yet death, death reigning in the midst.” 

She leaned her head upon his arm and cried a little, but he 
did not make any response. It was true, not doubt, but other 
thoughts were in his mind. 

“She will have great trouble with that child, when he 
grows up,” he said, as if he had been carrying on some 
previous argument. “It is ridiculous to have him always 
liangiiig about her, as if lie could understand.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. dO 

Mrs. Warrender started, and the movement made liis arm 
which she held tremble, but he did not think what this 
meant. He thought she was tired, and this recalled his 
thoughts momentarily to her. “ Poor mother ! ’’ he said ; 
“you sat up for me, not thinking of your own fatigue and 
trouble, and you are over-tired. Am I a trouble to you, too ? ” 
His mind was still occupied with the other train of thinking, 
even when he turned to subjects more his own. 

“ Do you know,” she said, not caring to reply, “it is the 
middle of the night ? ” 

“ Yes, and 5^011 should be in bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I 
have never had anything of the kind to do before, and it takes 
all desire to rest out of one. It will soon be daylight. I think 
I shall take my bath and then get to work.” 

“ Oh, no, Theo. You would not work, — you would think ; 
and there are some circumstances in which thinking is not 
desirable. Come out into the moonlight. We will take ten 
minutes, and then, my dear boy, good-night.” 

“ Good-morning, you mean, mother, and everything new,— 
a new life. It has never been as it will be to-morrow. Have 
you thought of that?” She gave a sudden pressure to his 
arm, and he perceived his folly. “That I should speak so to 
you, to whom the greatest change of all has come ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a little tremor. “ It is to me that it 
will make the most difference. And that poor young crea- 
ture, so much younger than I, who might be my cliild ! ” 

“ Do you think, when she gets over all this, that it will be 
much to her ? People say ” — 

“That is a strange question to ask,” she said, with agitation, 
— “a very strange question to ask. When we get over all 
this, — that is, the shock, and the change, and the awe of the 
going away, — what will it be then, to all of us? We shall 
just settle down once more into our ordinary life, as if noth- 
ing had happened. That is what wull come of it. That is 
what always comes of it. There is nothing but the common 
routine which goes on and on forever.” 

She was excited, and shed tears, at which he wondered a 
little, yet wms compassionate of, remembering that she was a 
woman and worn out. He put his hand upon hem, which lay 
on his arm. “Poor mother!” he murmured, caressing her 
hand with his, and feeling all manner of tender cares for her 
awake in him. Then he added softly, returning in spite of 
himself to other thoughts, “ The force of habit and of the; 


50 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

common routine, as you say, cannot be so strong when one is 
young.” 

“No,” she said ; and then, after a pause, “ If it is poor Lady 
Markland you are thinking of, she has her child.” 

This gave him a certain shock, in the softening of his heart. 
“ The child is the thing I don’t like!” he exclaimed, almost 
sharply. Then he added, “ I think the dawn must be near : I 
feel very chilly. Mother, come in ; as you say, it is the best 
thing not to think, but to go to bed.” 

VII. 

The morning rose, as they had said to each other, upon a 
new life. 

How strange it is to realize, after the first blow has fallen, 
that this changed life is still the same ! When it brings with 
it external changes, family convulsions, the alteration of ex- 
ternal circumstances, although these secondary- things increase 
the calamity, they give it also a certain natural atmosphere ; 
they are in painful harmony with it. But when the shock, 
the dreadful business of the moment, is all over, when the 
funeral has gone away from the doors and the dead has been 
buried, and everything goes on as before, this commonplace 
renewal is, perhaps, the most terrible of all to tne visionary 
soul. Minnie and Chatty got out their work,— the colored 
work, which they had thought out of place during the first 
week. They went in the afternoon for a walk, and gathered 
fresh fiowers, as they returned, for the vases in the drawing- 
room. When evening came they asked Theo if he would not 
read to them. It was not a novel they were reading ; it was a 
biography, of a semi-religious character, in which there 
were a great many edifying letters. They would not, of 
course, have thought of reading a novel at such a time. 

Warrender had been wandering about all day, restless, not 
knowing what to do with himself. He was not given to games 
of any kind, but he thought to-day that he would have felt 
something of the sort a relief, though he knew it would have 
shocked the household. In the afternoon, on a chance sugges- 
tion of his mother’s, he saw that it was a sort of duty to walk 
over to Markland and ask how Lady Markland was. Twelve 
miles — six there and six back again — is a long walk fora 
student. He sent up his name, and asked whether he could be 
of any use, but he did not receive encouragement. Lady 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 5i 

Markland sent her thanks, and was quite well (“she says,” 
the old butler explained, with a shake of the head, so that 
no one might believe he agreed in anything so unbecoming). 
The Honorable J ohn had been telegraphed for, her husband’s 
uncle, and everything was being done ; so that there was no 
need to trouble Mr. Warrender. 

He went back, scarcely solaced by his walk. He wanted to 
be doing something. Not Plato ; in the circumstances Plato 
did not answer at all. When he opened his book his thoughts 
escaped from him, and went off with a bound to matters 
entirely different. How was it possible that he could give that 
undivided attention which divine philosophy requires, the day 
after his father’s funeral, the first day of his independent life, 
the day after— That extraordinary postscript to the agita- 
tions of yesterday told, perhaps, most of all. When the girls 
asked him to read to them, opening the book at the page where 
they had left off, and preparing to tell him all that had gone 
before, so that he might understand the story (“although there 
is very little story,” Minnie said, with satisfaction; “cliiefly 
thoughts upon serious subjects ”), he jumped up from his chair 
in almost fierce rebellion against that sway of the ordinary of 
which his mother had spoken. “ You were right,” he said to 
her; “the common routine is the thing that outlasts every- 
thing. I never thought of it before, but it is true.” 

Mrs. Warrender, tliough she had herself been quivering with 
the long concentrated impatience for which it seemed even 
now there could be no outlet, was troubled by her son’s out- 
burst, and, afraid of what it might come to, felt herself moved 
to take the other side. “It is very true,” she said, faltering a 
little, “but the common routine is often best for everything. 
Theo. It is a kind of leading-string, which keeps us going.” 

The girls looked up at Theo with alarm and wonder, but still 
they were not shocked what he said. He was a man; he 
had come to the Warren from those wild excitements of Oxford 
life, of which tb .y had heard with awe ; they gazed at him, 
trying to understand him.’ 

“I have always heard,” said Minnie, “that reading aloud 
was the most tranquilizing thing people could do. If we had 
each a book it would be unsociable ; but when the book is 
read aloud, then we are all thinking about the same thing, and 
it draws us together ; ” which was really the most sensible 
judgment that could have been delivered, had the two fantastic 
ones been in the mood to understand what was said. 


52 


:1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


Chatty did not say anytJiing. but aftei* she had threaded her 
needle looked up with great attention to see how the fate of 
the evening was to be decided. It was a great pleasure when 
some one would read aloud, especially Theo, who thus became 
one of them, in a way that was not at all usual ; but perhaps 
she was less earnest about it this evening than on ordinary 
occasions, for the biographical book was a little dull, and the 
letters on serious subjects were dreadfully serious. No doubt , 
just after papa’s death, this w'as appropriate ; but still it is we 1 
known that there are stories which are also serious, and coul I 
not do any one harm, even at the gravest moments. 

“ There are times when leading-strings are insupportable.*’ 
Theo said ; “at any time I don’t know that I put much faith 
in them. We have much to arrange and settle, mother, if you 
feel able for it.” 

“ Mamma can’t feel able yet,” returned Minnie. “Oh, why 
should we make any change? We are so hapj)y as we are.” 

“I am quite able,” said Mrs. Warrender. She had been 
schooling herself to the endurance which still seemed to bo 
expected of her, but the moment an outlet seemed possible the. 
light kindled in her eye. “I think with Theo that it is far bet- 
ter to decide whatever has to be done at once.” Then she cried 
out suddenly, carried away by the unexpected, un]io])ed-fur 
opportunity, “ Oh, children, we must get away from here ! I 
cannot bear it any longer. As though all our ovm trouble and 
sorrow were not enough, this other — this other tragedy!” 
She put up her hands to her e3’'es, as though to shut out tin- 
sight that pressed ui^on them. “I cannot get it out of 1113 
mind. I suppose my nerves and everything are wrong ; all 
night long it seemed to be before me, — the blood on his fore- 
head, the ghastly white face, the laboring breath. Oh, not 
like your father, who was good and old an«l peaceful, — who 
was just taken away gently, led away, — but so young and so 
unprepared ! Oh, so unprepared ! What could God do Avith 
him, cut off in the midst of” — • 

Minnie got up hastily, with her smelling-salts, which always 
lay on the table. “Go and get her a glass of water, Theo,” 
she said authoritatively. 

Mrs. Warrender laughed. It was a little nervous, but it was 
a laugh. It seemed to peal through the house, which still was a 
house of mourning, and filled the girls with a horror beyond 
words. She put out her hands to put their ministrations away. 
“ I do not want Avater,” she said, “ nor salts either. I am not 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 58 

going into hysterics. Sit down and listen to me. I cannot 
remain here. It is your birthplace, but not mine. I am dying 
for fresh air and the sight of the sun. If you are shocked, I 
cannot help it. Theo, when you go back to Oxford I will go to 

I don’t know where ; to some place where there is more air ; 
but here I cannot stay.” 

This statement was as a thunderbolt falling in the midst of 
them, and the poor woman perceived this on speaking. Her 
son's impatience had been the spark which set the smouldering 
fire in her alight, but even he was astounded by the quick 
and sudden blaze which lit up the dull wonder in his sisters’ 
faces. And then he no longer thought of going to Oxford. 
He wanted to remain to see if he could do anything, — perhaps 
to be of use. A husband’s uncle does not commend himself to 
one's mind as a very devoted or useful ministrant. He would 
go away, of course, and then a man who was nearer, who was a 
neighbor, who had already been so mixed up with the tragedy, 
— this was what he had been thinking of ; not of Oxford, or 
his work. 

“ It is not worth while going back to Oxford,” he said ; “the 
term is nearly over. You know I was there only for conve- 
nience, to read. One can read anywhere, at home as well as — 
I shall not go back at present.” He was not accustomed yet 
to so abrupt a declaration of his sentiments, and for the 
moment he avoided his mother’s eye. 

Minnie went back to her seat, and put down the bottle of 
salts on the table, with an indignant jar. “ I am so glad that 
you feel so, Theo, foo.” 

Mrs. Warrender looked round upon her children with 
despairing eyes. They were all his children,— all Warrenders 
born ; knowing as little about her and her ways of thinking as 
if she had been a stranger to them. She was indeed a stran- 
ger to them in the intimate sense. The exasperation that had 
been in her mind for years could be repressed no longer. “ If 
it is so,” she said, “ I don’t wish to interfere with your plans, 
Theo ; but I will go for— for a little change. I must have it. 

I am worn out.” 

“Oh, mamma, you will not surely go by yourself, without 
us ! How could you get on without us ! ” cried Chatty. She 
had perhaps, being the youngest, a faint stir of a feeling in her 
mind that a little change might be pleasant enough. But she 
took her mother at her word with this mild protest, which 
made Mrs. Warrender’s impatient cry into a statement of fixed 


54 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

resolution : and the others said notliing. Warrender was silent, 
because he was absorbed in the new thoughts that filled his 
mind ; Minnie, because, like Chatty, she felt quite apart from 
any such extraordinary Avishes, having nothing to do with it, 
and she had nothing to say. 

“It AAdll be very strange, certainly, for me to be alone, — 
very strange,” Blrs. Warrender said, with a quiver in her A^oice. 
“ It is so long since I haA'^e done anything by myself ; not since 
before you Avere all born. But if it must be,” she added, “I 
must just take courage as Avell as I can, and — go by myself, as 
you say.” 

Once more there was no response. Tlie girls did not know 
Avhat to say. Duty, they thought, meant staying at home and 
doing their crewel- Avork ; they were not capable of any other 
identification of it all at once. It was very strange, but if 
mamma thought so, Avhat could they do? She got up Avith 
nerA'ous liaste, feeling noAv, since she had once broken bounds 
as though the flood of long-restrained feeling was beyond her 
control altogether. The natural thing Avould have been to 
rush upstairs and pack her things, and go off to the raihvay at 
once. That, perhaps, might not be practicable ; but neither 
Avas it practicable to sit quietly amid the silence and surprise, 
and see her wild, sudden resolution accepted dully, as if a 
Avoman could contemplate such a sev^erence calmly. And yet 
it Avas true that she must get fresh air or die. Life so long in- 
tolerable could be borne no longer. 

“ I think in the meantime,” she said, Avith a forced smile, “I 
shall go upstairs.” 

“You Avere up very late last night,” returned Theo, though 
rather by the way of giving a sort of sanction to her abrupt 
Avithdrawal than for any other reason, as he rose to open the 
door. 

“Yes, it Avas veiy late. I think I am out of sorts altogether. 
And if I am to make my plans Avlthout any reference to the 
rest of the family ” — 

“ Oh, that is absurd,” he said. “ Of course the girls must go 
Avith you, if you are really going. But you must not be in a 
hurry, mother. There is plenty of time ; there is no hurry.” 
He Avas thinking of the time that must elapse before the doors 
of Markland Avould be open e\"en to her Avho had received 
Lord Markland into her house. Till then he did not Avant her 
to go away. When she had left the room he turned upon his 
sisters and sleAv them. 


:1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


53 

“ Wliat do you mean, you two? I wonder if you have go u 
hearts of stone, to hear the poor mother talk of going away for 
a liiitle change, and to sit there like wooden images, and never 
open your mouths ! ” 

Tlie girls opened their mouths wide at this unexpected re- 
proach. “What could we say? Mamma tells us all in a 
moment she wants to go away from home ! We have always 
been taught that a girl’s place is at home.” 

“ What do you call home ?” he asked. 

It was a brutal speech, he was aware. Brothers and sisters 
are permitted to be brutal to each other without much harm 
done. Minnie had begun calmly, with the usual, “ Oh, Theo 1” 
before the meaning of the question struck her. She stopped 
suddenly, looked up at him, with eyes and lips open, with an 
astonished stare of inquiry. Then, dull though she was, grow- 
ing red, repeated in a startled, awakened, interrogative tone, 
“Oh, Theo? ” with a little gasp as for breath. 

“ I don’t mean to be disagreeable,” he said. “ I ne\"er should 
have been, had not you begun. The mother has tried to make 
you understand half a dozen times, but I suppose you did not 
want to understand. Don’t you know everything is changed 
since — since I was last at the Warren ? Your home is with my 
mother now, wherever she chooses to settle down.’" 

It must be said for Warrender that he meant no harm wliat- 
ever by this. He meant, perhaps, to punish them a little for 
their heartlessness. He meant them to see that their position 
was changed, — that they were not as of old, in assured pos- 
session ; and he reckoned upon that slowness of apprehension 
which probably would altogether preserve them from any 
painful consciousness. But it is astonishing how the mind and 
the senses are quickened when it is ourselves wlio are in ques- 
tion. Minnie was the leader of the two. She was the first to 
understand : and then it communicated itself partly by mag- 
netism to Chatty, who Avoke up much more slowly, having 
caught as it were only an echo of what her brother said. 

“You mean — that this is not our home any more,” said 
Minnie. Her eyes filled with sudden team, and her face was 
flushed with the shock. She had seldom looked so Avell, so 
thoroughly awakened and mistress of her faculties. When 
she Avas roused slie had more in her than Avas apparent on the 
surface. “I did not think you would be the one to tell us that. 
Of course we knoAv that it is quite true. Chatty and I are older 


56 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

than you are, but we are only daughters and you are the boy. 
You have the power to turn us out, — we all know that.” 

“Minnie!” cried Chatty, stmck with terror, putting out a 
hand to stop these terrrible words, — words such as had never 
been said in her hearing before. 

“But we did not think you would have used it,” the elder 
sister said simply, and then was silent. He expected tiiat she 
Avould end the scene by rnshing from the room in tears and 
wrath. But what she did was much more embarrassing. She 
dried her tears hastily, took up her crewel-work, sat-still, and 
said no more. Chatty threw an indignant but yet at the same 
time an inquiring glance at him. She had not heard or ob- 
served the beginning of the fray, and did not feel quite sure 
what it was all about. 

“ I am sure Theo would never do anything that was unkind,” 
she remarked mildly ; then after a little pause, “Would’nt it 
have been much better to have had the reading? I have 
noticed that before : Avhen one reads and the othei*s work, 
there is, as the rector says, a common interest, and we have a 
nice evening : but when we begin talking instead — well, we 
think differently, and we disagree, and one says more than one 
means to say, and then — one is sorry afterwards,” Chatty said, 
after another pause. 

On the whole, it was the girls who had the b3st of it in this 
encounter. It is impossible to say how much Theo was 
ashamed of himself when, after Cliatty's quite unaccustomed 
address, which surprised herself as much as her brother and 
sister, and after an hour of silence, broken by an occasioned 
observation, the girls put aside their crewels again, and re- 
marked that it was time to go to bed. A sense of opposition 
and that pride which prevents a man from being the linst to 
retire from a battle-field, even when the battle is a failure and 
the main armies have never engaged, had kept him there dur- 
ing the evening, in spite of himself. But when they left him 
master of the ground, there can be no doubt that he felt much 
more like a defeated tlian a triumpliant general. This first 
consequence of the new regime was not a beautiful or desirable 
one. There were tlius three parties in the house on the even- 
ing of the first day of their clianged existence : the motlier, 
who was so anxious to leave the scene of lier past existence 
behind her ; the girls, who clung to their home ; the brotlier, 
the master, wlio, half to show that he took his mother’s side, 
half out of instinctive assertion of himself, had let them know 


57 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

roundly that their home was theirs no longer. He was not 
proud of himself at all as he thought of what he had said ; but 
yet when he recalled it he was not perhaps so sorry for having 
said it as he had been the minute after the words left his lips. 
It was better, possibly, as the lawyer, as the mother, as every- 
body, had said, that the true state of affairs should be fully 
understood from the first. The house was theirs no longer. 
The old reign and all its traditions had passed away ; a new 
reign had begun. What that new reign might turn to, who 
might share it, what wonderful developments it might take, 
who could tell ? 

His imagination here went away with a leap into realms of 
sheer romance. He seemed to see the old house transformed, 
the free air, the sweet sunshine pouring in, the homely rooms 
made beautiful, the inhabitants — What was lie thinking of ? 
Did ever imagination go so fast or so far ? He stopped himself, 
with vague smiles stealing to his lips. All that enchanted 
ground was so new to him that he had no control over his 
fancy, but went to the utmost length with a leap of bewilder- 
ing pleasure and daring almost like a child. Yet mingled with 
this were various elements which were not lovely. He was 
not, so far as had been previously apparent, selfish beyond the 
natural liking for his own comfort and his own way, which is 
almost universal. He had never wished to cut himself off from 
Ids family, or to please himself at their expense. But some- 
thing had come into his mind which is nearer than the nearest, 
— something whicli, with a new and uncomprehended fire, 
hardens the heart on one side while melting it on the other, 
and brings tenderness undreamed of and cruelty impossible to 
be believed from the same source. He felt the conflict of these 
powers within him when he was left alone in the badly 
furnished, badly lighted drawing-room, which seemed to re- 
l)roach him for the retirement of those well-known figures 
which had filled it with tranquil dullness for so many years, 
and never wished it different. With something of tlie same 
feeling towards the inanimate things about him which he had 
expressed to his sisters, he walked up and down the room. It 
too would have to change, like them, to acknowledge that he 
was master, to be molded to new requirements. He felt as if 
the poor old ugly furniture, the hard curtains that hung like 
pieces of painted wood, the dingy pictures on the walls, con- 
templated him with panic and disapproval. They were easier 
to deal with than the human furniture ; but he had been ac- 


58 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


customed to them all liis life, and it was not without a sense 
of impiety that the young iconoclast contemplated these grim 
household gods, harmless victims of that future which as yet 
was but an audacious dream. 

He was standing in front of the great chiffonier, with its 
marble top and plate-glass bp,ck, looking with daring derision 
at its ugliness, when old Joseph came in at his usual hour — 
the hour at wliich he had fulfilled the same duty for the last 
twenty years — to put out the lamps. AVarrender could horrify 
the girls and insult the poor old familiar furniture, but he was 
not yet sufficiently advanced to defy Joseph. He turned 
round, with a blush and quick movement of shame, as if he 
had been found out, at the appearance of the old man with his 
candle in his hand, and murmuring something about work 
hurried off to the library, with a fear that even that refuge 
might perhaps be closed upon him. Joseph remained master 
of the situation. He followed AVarrender to the door with his 
eyes, with a slight contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, as at 
an unaccountable being whose ‘ ‘ ways ” were scarcely import- 
ant enough to be taken into account, and trotted about, put- 
ting out one lamxJ after another, and the twinkling candles on 
the mantelpiece, and the little lights in the hall and corridor. 
It was an office Joseph liked. He stood for a moment at the 
foot of the back stairs looking with comx)lacency upon the 
darkness, his candle lighting uj) his little old wry face. But 
when his eye caught the line of light under the library door, 
Joseph shook his head. He had put the house to bed without 
disturbance for so long : he could not abide, he said to himself, 
this introduction of new ways. 

VIII. 

It was a violent beginning ; but perhaps it was as well, on 
the whole, that the idea of Theo’s future supremacy should 
have been got into the heads of the duller portion of the family. 
AVarrender was so anxious that there should be no unnecessary 
haste in his mother’s departure, and so ready to find out a 
pleasant place where they could all go, that everything that 
had been harsh was forgotten. Indeed, it is very j^ossible in 
a family that a great many harsh things may be said and 
forgotten, with little harm done — boys and girls who have 
been brought up in the same nursery having generally insulted 
as well as caressed each other with impunity from tlieir earliest 
years. This happy effect of the bonds of nature was no doubt 


59 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

made easier by the placid characters of the girls, who had no 
inclination to brood over an unkindness, or any habit of think- 
ing what was meant by a hasty word. On tJie contrary, when 
they remembered it in the morning, after their sound night’s 
sleep, they said to each other that Theo could not possibly have 
meant it ; that he must have been out of temper, poor fellow. 
They even consented to listen and to look when, with Unusual 
amiability, he called them out to see what trees he intended 
to cut down, and what he meant to do. Minnie and Chatty 
indeed bewailed every individual tree, ahd kissed the big, tot- 
tering old elm, which had menaced the nursery window since 
ever they could remember, and shut out the light. “ Dear old 
thing ! ” they said, shedding a tear or two upon its rough bark. 
“ It would be dear indeed if it brought down the wall and 
smashed the old play-room,” their brother said, — an argument 
which even to these natural conservatives bore, now that the 
first step had been taken, a certain value. Sometimes it is not 
amiss to go too far when the persons you mean to convince 
are a little obtuse. They entered into the question almost with 
warmth at last. The flower garden would be so much improved, 
for one thing ; there never had been sun enough for the flow- 
ers, and the big trees had taken, the gardener said, all the 
goodness out of the soil. Perhaps after all Tlieo might be 
right. Of course he knew so much more of the world 1 

“ And mother, before you go, you should see — Lady Mark- 
land,” Theo said. 

There was a little hesitation in his voice before he pronounced 
the name, but of this no one took any notice, at the time. 

I have been wondering what I should do. There has been 
no intimacy, not more than acquaintanceship. 

“ After what has happened you surely cannot call yourselves 
mere acquaintances, you and she.” 

“ Perhaps not that : but it is not as if she had thrown herself 
upon my sympathy, Theo. She was very self-contained. No- 
body could doubt that she felt it dreadfully ; but she did not 
fling herself upon me, as many other women would have 
done.” 

“I should not think that was at all her character,” said War- 
render. 

“No, I don’t suppose it is her character ; and then there were 
already two of her, so to speak, — that child ” — 

“ The only thing I dislike in her,” he said hastily, “is that 


60 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

cliild. What good can a creature of that age do her? And it 
must be so bad for the boy.” 

“ I don’t know about the good it can do her. You don’t any 
of you understand,” Mrs. Warrender said, wnth a moistening 
of her eyes, “ the good there is in a child. As young people 
grow up they become more important, no doubt, — oh, yes, far 
more important, — and take their own place. But a little thing 
that belongs to you, that has no thoughts but what are your 
thoughts, that never wants to be away from you ” — 

•‘Very unnatural,” ^aid the young man severely, “or else 
fictitious. The little thing, you may be sure, would much 
rather be playing with its own companions ; or else it must 
be an unhealthy little sentimental ” — 

Mrs. Warrender shook lier head, but said no more. She 
gave him a look half remonstrating, half smiling. I had a 
little boy once, it was on her lips to say: but she forbore. 
How was the young man beginning his own individual career, 
thinking of everything in the world rather than of such inno- 
cent consolation as can be given to a woman by a child, to un- 
derstand that mystery? She whose daughters, everybody said, 
must be “ such comiianions,” and her son “such a support,” 
looked back wistfully upon the days when they were little 
children ; but then she was an unreasonable woman. She was 
roused from a little visionary journey back into her own ex- 
periences by the sound of Theo’s voice going on: — 

— “should call and ask,” he was saying. “She might want 
ou. She must want some one, and they say she has no 
relations. I think certainly you should call and ask. Shall I 
order the brougham for you this afternoon? I would drive 
you over myself, but perhaps, in the circumstances, it would 
be more decorous” — 

“ It must be the brougham; if you think I ought to go so 
soon ” — 

•‘ Well, mother, you arc the best judge ; but I suppose that 
f women can be of any use to each other it must be at such a 
— at a time when other people are shut out.” 

Mrs. Warrender was much surprised by his fervor ; but she 
remembered that her husband had been ver}’- punctilious about 
visiting, as men in the country often are, the duty of keeping 
up all social connections falling upon their wives, and not on 
themselves. The brougham was ordered, accordingly, and she 
set out alone, though IMinnie would willingly have strained a 
point to accompany her. “ Don’t you think, mamma, tiiat as 


.1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. Cl 

I am much nearer her own age she might like me to go’” tliat 
young lady said But here Theo came in again with his newTy 

XdM^no TY- “ f he sa^d ' 

alo- Y^ ^T Y Yf IT® ' ®l>e drove 

alori Lady Markland liacl not wanted consolation- the 

shock had urned her to stone. And then she J.aVher clJld 

and seemed to need no other minister. But if it pleased Theo’ 

that was motive enough. She reflected, as she pursued her 

hi7faXT-oh different from 

■p, p ’ eiy different; not the ordinary tyije of tlie 

English country gentleman. He would not hunt, he would 
shoot \eiy little; but her husband had not been enthusiastic 
ill either of these pursuits. He would not care, perhaps ^for 
county business or for the. quarter sessions ; he would hLo too 
much contempt for the country bumpkins to be popular with 
the f‘^imers or wield political influence. Very likely (she 
thought), he would not live much at the Warren, bui. Jceen 
rooms at Oxford, or perhaps go to London. She had iiu feai 
that he would ever “go wrong.” That was as great an im- 
po^ibihty as that he should be prime minister or Arclmishop 
of Canterbury But yet it was a little odd that he should be 
so particular about keeping up the accidental connection with 
Lad> Maikland. This showed that he was not so indifferent 
to letaming his place in the county and keeping up a v^onnec- 
tion as she thought. As for any other ideas that Theo might 
associate with the young wM widow whose husband 

la^- still unburied,— nothing of the kind entered Mrs. Warren- 

ders head. 

The nakedness of the house seemed to be made more con- 
spicuous by the blank of all the closed windows, the white 
blinds down, the white walls shining like a sort of colorless 
monument in the blaze of the westering sun. The sound of 
tlie wheels going up the open road which was called an avenue 
seemed a kmd of insult to the stillness which brooded over the 
house of death. AVhen the old butler came solemnly down 
the great steps, the small country lady, who was not 
on Lady Maikland s level, felt her little pretense at intimacy 
quite unjustiflable.^ The butler came down the steps with a 
solemn air to receive a. canl and inquiries, and to give the 
stereotyped reply that her ladyship was as well as could be 
looked for, but lifted astonished eyes, not without a gleam of 
insolence in them, when Mrs. Warrender made the unexpected 
demand if Lady Markland would see her. See yoic I If it liad 


62 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


been the duchess, perhaps ! was the commentary legible in his 
face. He went in, however, with the card in his hand, while 
she waited, half indignant, half amused, with little doubt 
what the reply would be. But the reply was not at all what 
she expected. After a minute or two of delay, another figure, 
quite different from that of the butler, appeared on the steps : 
a, tall man, with very thin, unsteady legs, a face on which the 
ravages of age were visibly repaired by many devices unknown 
to its simpler victims, with an eyeglass in his eye and a hesi- 
tation in his speech. He was not unknown to the society 
about, though he showed himself but rarely in it, and was not 
beloved when he appeared. He was Lord Markland’s uncle, 
the late lord’s only brother, — he wdio was supposed to have 
led the foolish young man astray. Mrs. Warrender looked at 
him with a certain liorror, as he came walking gingerly down 
the steps. He made a very elaborate bow at the carriage door, 
— if he were really Satan in person, as many people thought, 
he was a weak-kneed Satan, — and gulped and stammered a 
good deal (in which imperfections we need not follow him) as 
he made liis compliments. His niece, he said, had charged 
him witii the kindest messages, but she was ill and lying 
down. Would Mrs. Warrender excuse her for to-day ? 

“ She is most grateful for so much kindness ; and there is a 
favor— ah, a favor which I have to ask. It is, if you would 
add to your many kind services ” — 

I have rendered no kind services, Mr. Markland. The acci- 
dent happened at our doors.” 

‘•Ah, no less kind for that. My niece is very gi-ateful, and I 
— and I, too, — that goes without saying. If we might ask you 
to come the day after to-morrow, to remain with her while the 
last rites ” — 

“To remain with her! Are you sure that is Lady Mark- 
land’s wish ? ” 

“My dear lady, it is mine and hers,— hers, too; again, that 
goes without saying. She has no relations. She wants coun- 
tenance, — countenance and support; and who could give them 
so fitly as yourself ? In the same circumstances, accept my sin- 
cerest regrets. Mr. Warrender was, I have always heard, an 
excellent person, and must be a great loss. But you have a 
son, I think.” 

“ Yes, I have a son.” 

“ Who has been here twice to inquire ? Most friendly, most 
friendly, I am sure. I see, therefore, that you take an inter- 


.1 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


m 


est. Then may we calculate upon you, Wednesday, as early 
as will suit you ? ” 

“I will come,'’ said Mrs. Warrender, still hesitating, “if 
you are quite syire it is Lady Marklaiid's wish.” 

While he rei)eated his assurances, another member of the 
family appeared at the door, little Geoff, in a little black dress, 
which showed his paleness, his meagre, small person, insigni- 
flcance, and sickliness more than ever. He had been there, it 
would seem, looking on while his uncle spoke. At this 
moment he came down deliberately, one step at a time, till his 
liead was on a level with the carriage window. “It is quite 
true,” he said. “ Mother’s in her own room. She’s tired, but 
she want’s you, if you’ll come ; anyhow, I want you, please, if 
you’ll come. They say I’m to go, but not mamma : and you 
know she couldn’t be left by herself ; uncle tliinks so, and so 
do 1.” 

The little thing stood shuffling from one foot to another, his 
hands in nis pockets, liis little gray eyes looking ev’-ery where 
but at the compassionate face turned to him from the carriage 
window. There w^as a curious ridiculous repetition in the 
child’s attitude of Theo’s assertion of his rights. But Mrs. 
Warrender’s heart was soft to the child. “ I don’t think she 
want’s me,” she said. “I will do anything at such a time, 
but ” — 

“ I want you,” said Geoff. He gave her a momentaiy 
glance, and she could see that the little colorless eyes had tears 
in them. 1 shall have to go and leave her, and wdio will 
take care of her ? She is to have a thing like yours upon her 
head.” He was ready to sob, bat kept himself in with a great 
effort, swallowing the little convulsion of nature. His moth- 
er's widow’s ca]) was more to Geoff than his father’s death ; at 
least it was a visible sign of something trejiiendous wdiich had 
happened, more telling than the mere absence of one who had 
been so often absent. “Come, Mrs. VYarrender ! ” he said, 
with a hoarseness of passion in his little voice. “ I can leave 
lier if you are there.” 

“ I will come for you, Geoff,” she said, liolding out her hand, 
and with tears in her eyes. He was not big enough to reach 
it from where he stood, and the tears in her voice affected the 
little hero. He dug his own hands deeper into his pockets, and 
shuffled off without any ^epl^^ It was the uncle, whose touch 
she instinctively shrunk from, who took and bowed over Mrs. 
Warrender's hand. The Honorable John bowed over it as if 


64 


A COUNTRY GENTLE3IAN. 


he were about to kiss it, and might have actually touched the 
black glove with his carmine lips (would they have left a 
mark ?) had not she drawn it away. 

What a curious office to be thus imposed upon her ! To give 
countenance and support, or to take care of, as little Geoff 
said, this young woman whom she scarcely knew, who had 
not in the depth of trouble made any claim upon her sym- 
pathy. Mrs. AVarrender looked forward witli anything but 
satisfaction to the task. But when she told her tale it was 
received with a sort of enthusiasm. Oh, how nice of her ! ” 
cried Minnie and Chatty ; and tlieir motlier saw, with half 
amusement, that they thought all the more of her because her 
companionship had been sought for by Lady Markland. And 
in AAffirrender’s eyes a lire lighted up. He turned away his 
head, and after a moment said, “ You will be very tender to 
her, mother.” Mrs. AVarrender was too much confused and 
bewildered to make any reply. 

AVhen the day came she went, with reluctance and a sense 
or self-abnegation, which was not gratifying, but painful, to 
fulfill this office. “She does not want me, I know,” Mrs. 
AA’'arrender said to her son, who accompanied her, to form part 
of the cortege, in the little brougham which liad been to Mark- 
land but once or twice in so many years, and this last week 
had traversed the road from one house to another almost every 
day. I think you are mistaken, mother ; but even so, if you 
can do her any good,” said Theo, with unusual enthusiasm. 
His mother thought it strange that he should show so miicli 
feeling on the subject ; and she went through the £p'eat ball 
and ui> the stairs, through the depths of the vast, silent house, 
to Lady Markland’s room, with anticipations as little agreeable 
as any with vrhich woman ever went to an office of kindness. 
Lady Markland’s room was on the other side of the house, 
looking upon a landscape totally different from that through 
which her visitor had come. The window was open, the light 
unshaded, and Lady Markland sat at a writing-table covered 
Avith papers, as little like a broken-] learted widow as could be 
supposed. She Avas dressed, indeed, in the official dress of 
heavy crape, and Avore (for once) the cap AAdiich to Geoff had 
been so overpowering a symbol of sorroAA’- ; but save for these 
signs, and perhaps a little additional paleness in her never high 
complexion, Avas precisely as Mrs. AA^arrender had seen her 
since she had risen fromffier girlish bloom into the self-posses- 
sion of a Avife matured and stilled by premature experience. 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLE2IAN. Co 

She came forward, holding out her hand, when her visitor, 
’wdth a reluctance and dirlidence quite unsuitable to her superior 
age, slowly advanced. 

“ Thank you,” slie said at once, “for coming. I know with- 
out a word how disagreeable it is to you, how little you wished 
it. You have come against^mur will, and you think against my 
will, Mrs. Y/arrender ; but indeed it is not so. It is a comfort 
and help to me to have you.” 

“ If that is so. Lady M-u'lcland ” — 

“ That is wliy you have come,” she said. “ It is so. I know 
you have come unwillingly. You heard— they have taken the 
boy from me.” 

“ But only for this day.” 

“ Only for the hour, I hoi')e. It is supx)osed to be too much 
for me to go.” Here she smiled, with a nervous movement of 
her face. “ Nothing is too much for me. You know a little 
about it, but not all. Do you remember him when we were 
married, Mrs. Warrender? I recollect you were one of the 
first people I saw.” 

This sudden plunge into the subject for which she was least 
prepared — for ail her ideas of condolence had been driven out 
of her mind by the young woman s demeanor, the open win- 
dow, the cheerful and commonplace air of the room — confused 
Mrs. WaiTender greatly, * ' I remember Lord Markland almost 
ail his life,” she said. 

‘ ‘ Here is the miniature of him that was done for me before 
we were married,” said Lady Markland, rising hurried!}'-, and 
bringing it from the table. “ Look at it ; did you ever see a 
more hopeful face ? He was so fresh ; he was so full of spirits. 
Who could have thought there Avas any canker in that face ? ” 

' There Avas n ot then, ” said the elder Avoman, looking through 
a mist of natural tears — the tears of that profound regret for a 
life lost Avhich are more bitter, almost, than personal sorrow — 
at the miniature. »She remembered him so Aveil, and how 
eA’ervbody thought all A’vould come right Avith the poor young 
felloAA^ Avhen he was so hajAjjily married and had a home. 

“Ah! but there AAais ! — nobody told me; though if all the 
world had told me it Avould not liav'c made an}’- dilference. 
Mrs. Y/arrender, he is like that uoaa". Everything else is gone. 
He looks as he did at twenty, as good and as pure. AYhat do 
you think it means? Does it mean anything? Or is there 
only some physical interpretation of it, as these horrible men 
say?” 


m 


A COUXlllV GEXTLEMAX. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Warrender, quite subdvied, “they say 
it means that all is pai’doned, and that they have entered into 
peace.” 

Peace,” she said. “I was afraid you were going to say 
rest ; and he who had never labored wanted no rest. Peace, 
— where the wicked cease from troubling, is that what you 
mean He had no time to repent.” 

“My dear — oh, I am not clear, I can't tell you; but who 
can tell wliat was in his mind between the time he saw his 
danger and the blow that stunned him? If my boy had done 
ever;\dhing <agaiiist me, and all in a moment turned and called 
to me, would I refuse him? And is not God,” cried one 
mother to the other, taking her hands, “ better than we?” 

It was she wlio bad come to be the comforter who wept, 
tears streaming down her cheeks. The other lield her hands, 
and looked in her face with diy, feverish eyes. “ Your boy,*’ 
she said slowly, “he is good and kind, — he is good and kind. 
Will my boy be like him? Or do you think there is an inherit- 
ance in that as in other things ? ” 

IX. 

The post town for the Warren v,^as Highcombe, which was 
about four miles olY. To drive there had always been con- 
sidered a dissipation, not to say a temptation, for the Warren- 
ders ; at least for the feminine portion of the family. There 
wore at Highcombe what the ladies called “ quite good shops,” — 
shops where you could get everything, really as good as town, 
and if not cheaper, yet quite as cheap, if you added on the rail- 
way fare and all the necessary expenses you were inevitably put 
to, if you went to town on purpose to shop. Notwithstanding, 
it was deemed prudent to go to Highcombe as seblom as pos- 
sible ; only when tiiere was actually something wanted, or 
important letters to post, or sucli a necessity as balanced the 
probable inducements to buy tilings that w^ere not needed, or 
spend money that might have been spared. The. natural con- 
sequence of this prudential regulation was that the little shop in 
the village which lay close to Iheir gates had been encouraged 
to keep sundry kinds of goods not usually found in a little 
village shop, and that Minnie and Chatty very often passed 
that way in their daily walks. Old Mrs. Bagley had a good 
selection of shaded Berlin wools and a few silks, and even, 
when the fashion came in for that, crevrels. She had Berlin 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


67 


patterns, and pieces of muslin stamped for that other curious 
kind of 01 name Illation which consisted in cutting holes and 
sewing them round. And she had beads of dilferent sizes and 
colors, and in short quite a little case of things intended for 
the occupation of that superabundant leisure which ladies 
often have in the countr 3 \ In the daN^s with which we are 
concerned there were not so manj" activities possible as now. 
The village and parish were not so well looked after. There 
was no hospital nearer than the county hospital at Highcombe, 
and the “ Union ” was in the parish of Standingby, six miles off, 
too far to he visited ; neither had it become the fashion then to 
visit hospitals and workhouses. The poor of the village were 
poor neighbors. The sick were nursed, with more or less ad- 
vantage, at home. Beef tea and chicken broth flowed from 
the Warren, Avhenever it was necessary, into whatsoever 
cottage stood in need, and very good, wholesome calfs-foot 
jell^', though perhaps not quite so clear as that which came 
from the Highcombe confectioners. Everything was done in 
a neighborly way, without organization, Perhaps it was bet- 
ter, perhaps worse. In hujiian affairs it is alwaj^s so difficult 
to make certain. But at ail events the young ladies had not 
so much to do. And lawn tennis had not been yet invented ; 
croquet only was in the mild fervor of its first existence. 
Schools of cookery and ambulances were unknown. And 
needle-work, bead-work, muslin-work, flourished ; crochet, 
even, was still pursued as a fine-art occupation. That period 
is as far back as the Crusades to the sympathetic reader, but 
to the Miss Warrenders it was the natural state of affairs. 
They went to Mrs. Bagley’s often, in tiie dullness of the after- 
noon, to turn over the Berlin wools and the crochet cottons, to 
match a shade, or to find a size they wanted. The expendi- 
ture was not great, and it gave an object to their walk. “ I 
must go out,” tliey would say to each other, “ for there is that 
pink to match ; ” or, “ I shall be at a standstill with my anti- 
macassar ; my cotton is almost done.” It was not the fault of 
Minnie and Chatty that they had nothing better to do. 

Mrs. Bagley was old, but very lively, and capable, even 
while selling soap, or sugar, or a piece of bacon, or a tin tea- 
kettle, of seeing through her old spectacles whether the tint 
selected was one that matched. She was a woman who had 
“come through” in rch in her life. Pier children had all 
grown up, and most of them were dead. Those who remained 
were married, with children of their own, making a gTeat 


cs 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

struggle to bring them up, as she herself had done in her day. 
Two daughters were widows, — one in the village, one at some 
distance off ; and living with herself, dependent on her, yet 
not dependent altogether, was all that remained of another 
daughter, the one supposed to have been her favorite. It 
seemed to the others rather hard that granny should lavish all 
her benefits upon Eliza, while their own families got only little 
presents and helps now and then. But Lizzie was always the 
one with mother, they said, though goodness knows she had 
cost enough in her lifetime without leaving such a charge on 
granny’s hands. Lizzie Bagley, who in her day had been the 
prettiest of the daughters, had married out of her own sphere, 
though it could not be said to be a very grand marriage. She 
had married a clerk, a sort of gentleman, — not like the plough- 
men and country tradesmen who had fallen to the lot of her 
sisters. But he had never done well, lost one situation after 
another, and had gone out finally to Canada, where he died, — 
lie and his wife both ; leaving their girl with foreign ways and 
a will of her own, such as the aunts thought (or at least said; 
does not develop on the home soil. As jjoor little Lizzie, how- 
ever, had been awaj^ but two years, perhaps the blame did not 
entirel}’’ lie with Canada. 

Her mother’s beauty and her father s gentility had given to 
Lizzie many advantages over her cousins. She was prettier 
and far more ‘ ‘ like a lady ” than the best of them ; a slim, 
straight little person, without the big joints and muscles of 
the race, and with blue eyes wliich were really blue, and not 
whity-gray. And instead of going out to servdce, as would 
have been natural, she had learned dress-making, which was 
a fine-lady sort of a trade, and put nonsense into her head, and 
led her into vanity. To see her in the sitting-room behind the 
shop, with her hair so smooth, and lier waist so small, and 
collars and cuffs as nice as any young lady’s, was as gall and 
wormwood to the mothers of girls quite as good (they said) as 
Lizzie, and just as near to granny, but never cosseted and 
petted in that way. And what did granny expect was to be- 
come of her at the end ? So long as she was sure of her ’oinc, 
and so long as the young ladies at the Warren gave her a bit 
of work now and again, and Mrs. Wilberforce at the rectory 
had her in to make the children’s things, all might be well 
enough. But the young ladies would marry, and the little 
Wilberforces would grow up, and granny — well, granny could 
not expect to live forever. And what would Miss Lizzie do 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. G9 

then? This was what the aunts would say, shaking their 
heads. Mrs. Bagley, when she said anything at all in her own 
defense, declared that poor little Lizzie had no one to look to, 
neither father nor mother, and that if lier own granny didn’t 
take her up and do for her, who should ? And besides, she 
did very well with her dressmaking. Bat nevertheless, by 
times, Mrs. Bagle}^ had her own appreiiensions, too. 

Minnie and Chatty were fouvl of making expeditions into 
the shop, as has been said. They liked to have a talk with 
Lizzie, and to turn over her fashion-books, old and new, and 
perhaps to plan, next time they had new frocks, how the 
sleeves should be made. It was a pleasant “ object ” for their 
walk, a break in the monotony, and gave them something to 
talk about. They paid one of these visits on an afternoon 
shortly after the events which have been described. Ciiatty 
had occasion for a strip of muslin stamped for working, to 
complete so!ue of her new underclothing which she had been 
making. The shop had one large square window, in which a 
great many different kinds of wares were exhibited, from bot- 
tles full of barley sugar and acid drops to bales of striped stuff 
for petticoats. Bunches of candles dangled from the roof, and 
nets of onions, and the old lady lierself was weighing an ounce of 
tea for one of her poor customers when the young ladies came 
in. Is Lizzie at home, Mrs. Bagley?” said Minnie. “ Don’t 
mind us, — we can look for what we want ; and you mustn't 
let your other customers wait.” 

“ You’re always that good, miss,” said the old woman. (Iler 
dialect could be expressed only by much multiplication of 
vowels, and would not be a satisfactory representation even 
then, so that it is not necessary to trouble the eye of the reader 
witli its peculiarities. A certain amount of mispronunciation 
may be taken for granted.) “ If all the quality would as con- 
siderate, it would be a tine thing for poor folks.” 

“Oh, but people with any sense would always be consider- 
ate ! How is your motlier, Sally? Is it for her you are buying 
the tea? Cocoa is much more nourishing ; it would be an 
excellent thing for her.” 

“ If you please, miss,” said Sally, who was the purchaser, 
“ mother do dearly love a cu^) of tea.” 

“ You ought to tell her that the cocoa is far more nourishing,” 
said Minnie. “ It would do her a great deal more good.” 

“Ah, miss, but there isn’t the heart in it that there is in a 
cup o' tea,” said Mrs. Bagley. “ It do set a body up when so 


70 .4 CQUynZY GENTLU^dAX. 

be as you're low. Coffee and cocoa and that’s fine and warm- 
'' ing of a morning ; but when the afternoon do come, and you 
feels low ” — 

••Why should you feel low more in the afternoon than in 
the mprning, Mrs. Bagley? There’s no reason in that. ’ 

‘ ‘ Ain't there, miss ? There’s a deal of ’uman nature, thougli. 
Not young ladies like you, that have everything as you want : 
but even my Lizzie, I find as she wants her tea badly after- 
noons.” 

“And so do we,” said Chatty, “ especially wlien we don’t go 
out. Look here, this is just the same as the last we had. Mrs. 
Wiiberiorce had such a pretty pattern yesterday,— a pattern 
that made a great deal of appearance, and yet went so quick 
in working. She had done a quarter of a yard in a day. ’ 

“You’ll find it there, miss,” said the old woman. “Mrs. 
Wilberforce don’t get her patterns nowliere but from me. 
Lizzie chose it herself, last time she went to Ilighcomb. And 
they all do say as the child has real good taste,— better nor 
many a lady. Lizzie ! Why, here’s the young ladies, and you 
never showing. Lizzie, child ! She’s terribly taken up with a 
—with a— no, I can’t call it a job,— with a hoffer she’s had.” 

“ An offer ! Do you me in a real OJer? ” cried the girls to- 
gether, with exicitemcnt, both in a breath. 

“Oh, not a hoffer of marriage, miss, if that’s what you’re 
thinking of, though she’s had them, too. This is just as hard 
to make up her mind about. Not to me,” said the old woman. 
“ But perhaps I’ve give her too much of her own way, and 
now when I says, Don’t, she up and says. Why, granny? It 
ain’t always so easy to say why ; but when your judgment’s 
agin it, with reason or without reason, I’m always for follow- 
ing the juJgment. L'izzie ! Perhaps, miss, you’d give her 
your advice.” 

As this was said, Lizzie came out thi’o-ugh the little glass 
door Avith a little muslin curtain A^eiling the lower panes, 
which opened into the room beyond. She made a curtsy, as 
in duty bound, to the young ladies, but slie said with some 
petulance, ‘ I ain’t deaf, granny,’’ as she did so. 

“ She has always got lier little word to say for lierself,” the 
old woman reiilied, with a smile. She had opened the glass 
case which held the miLslin patterns, and was turning them 
over with the tips of her fingers, — those lingers whicli had so 
many different kinds, of goods to touch, and were not, perhaps, 
adapted for white muslin. “ Look at this one, miss , it’s blue- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 71 

bells that is, just for all the world like the bluebells in the 
woods in tlie moiitii o' May.” 

“ I’ve got the new Moniture, Miss Warrender, and there are 
some sweet things, — some sweetly pretty things,” said Lizzie, 
holding up her paper. Minnie and Chatty, though they were 
such steady girls, were not above being fluttered by the Moni- 
teur de la Mode. They both abandoned the muslin- work, and 
passed through the little door of the counter which Mrs. Bagley 
held open for them. The room behind, although perhaps not 
free from a slight perfume of the cheese and bacon which 
occupied the back part of the shop, was pleasant enough. It 
had a broad lattice window, looking over tlie pleasant fields, 
under which stood Lizzie’s work-table, a large white wooden 
one, very clean and old, with signs of long scrubbing and the 
progress of time, scattered over with the litter of dressmaking. 
The floor was white deal, very clean also, with a bit of bright- 
colored carpet under Lizzie’s chair. As it was the sitting-room 
and kitchen and all, there was a little fire in the grate. 

“ Now,” said Mrs. Bagley, coming in after them, and shut- 
ting the door, — for there was no very lively traffic in the shop, 
— "the young ladies is young like yourself, not to take too 
great a liberty, and you think as I’m old and old-fashioned. 
Just you tell the young ladies straight off, and see what they’ll 
have to say.” 

“It ain’t of such dreadful consequence, granny. A person 
would think my life depended ^on it, to hear you speak. 
Sleeves are quite small this summer, as I said they would be ; 
and if you’ll look at this trimming, Miss Chatty, it is just the 
right thing for crape.” 

“ People don't wear crape. Miss Murder tells us, nearly so 
much as they used to do,” said Miss Warrender, “or at least 
not nearly so long as they used to do. Six months, she says, 
for a parent.” 

“Your common dresses will be worn out by then, miss,” 
said Lizzie. “ I wouldn’t put any on your winter frocks, if I 
was you : for black materials are always heavy, and crape 
don’t show on those thick stuffs. Pd just have a piping for the 
best, and” — 

“ What’s that,” said Chatty, who was the most curious, 
“that has such a strong scent, and gilt-edged paper? You 
must have got some very grand correspondent, Lizzie.” 

Lizzie made a hasty movement to secure a letter which lay 
on the table, and appeared for a moment to intend to thrust it 


; A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

into her pocket. She changed lier mind, however, with a 
slignt scowi on her innocent-seeming countenance, and, reluc- 
taniiy unfolding it, showed the date in large gilt letters : The 
Elms, Underwood, Highcombe.” Underwood was the name 
of the village. Minnie and Chatty repeated it aloud ; and one 
recoiled a few steps, while the other turned upon Lizzie with 
wide-open, horrified eyes. ‘‘Tiie Elms! Lizzie, you are not 
going there 1 ” 

“That’s what I say, miss,” cried Mrs. Bagley, wfith delight; 
‘ ‘ that’s what 1 tells her. Out o’ respect for her other customers 
she couldn’t go there I ” 

“To the Elms I” repeated Minnie. She became pale with 
the horror of the idea. “I can only say, Lizzie, that in that 
case mamma would certainly never employ you again. Char- 
lotte and I might be sorry as having known you all our lives, 
but we could do nothing against mamma. And Mrs. Wilber- 
force, too,” she added. “You may be sure she would do the 
same. The Elms I — why, no respectable person — I should think 
not even the Vidlers and the Drivers” — 

“ That is what I tells her, miss, — that’s exactly what I tells 
her ; nobody, — much less madam at the Warren, or the young 
ladies as you’re so found of ; that’s what I tells her every 
day.” 

Lizzie, whose forehead had been puckered up aU this time 
into a frown, Avhich entirely changed the character of her soft 
face, here declared with some vehemence that she had never 
said she was going to the Elms, — never ! Though when folks 
asked her civilly, and keeping a lady’s-maid and all, and dress- 
ing beautiful, and nothing i^roved against them, who was she 
that she should say she wouldn’t go? “ And I thought it might 
be such a good thing for granny, who is always complaining of 
bad times, if she could get their custom. It’s a house where 
nothing is spared,” said Lizzie ; “ even in the servants’ hall the 
best tea and everything,” She was fond of the young ladies, 
but at suclv an opportunity not to give them a gentle blow^ 
in passing, was beyond the power of woman : for not even in 
the drawing-room did the gentlefolks at the Warren drink the 
best tea. 

“ I wouldn’t have their custom, not if it was offered to me,” 
said Mrs. Bagley, with vehemence. “And everybody knows 
as every single thing they have comes from Highcombe, if not 
London. I hope as an empty nest may n’t bo found some fine 
morning, and all the birds away. It would serve that nasty 


COUNTRY GENTLEMAN u 

Molasis right, as is always taking the bread out of countrV' 
folks’ mouth.” 

“That’s just Avhat I was thinking, granny,” said the girl. 
“ If I’d gone it would have been chiefly for your sake. But 
since the young ladies and you are both so set against it, I can’t* 
and there’s an end.” 

“lam sure she never meant it,” said the younger sister. 
“She was only just flattered for a moment, — were n’t you. 
Lizzie?— and pleased to think of some one new.” 

“ That’s about the fact, that is,” said the old woman. “ Some- 
thing new, — them lasses v/ould just give their souls for some- 
thing new.” 

“But Lizzie must know,” said Miss Warrender, “ that hei 
old customers would uever stand it. I was going to talk 
about some work, and of sending for her to come to the Warren 
two days next week. But if there is any idea of the — other 
place ” — 

“ For goodness’ sake, Lizzie, speak up, and say No, miss, there 
ain’t no thought of it ! ” 

“ Now I know you’re so strong against it, of course I can’t, 
and there’s an end,” said Lizzie ; but she looked more angry 
than convinced. 

X 

The girls went round by the rectory, on their way home. 
It was a large red brick house, taller almost than the church, 
which was a very old church, credibly dating from the 
thirteenth century, with a Norman arch to the chancel, which 
tourists came to see. The rectory was of the days of Anne, 
three stories high, with many twinkling windows in frame- 
work of white, and a gi’eat deal of ivy and other climbing 
plants covering the walls, tlirough the interstices of which the 
old mellow red bricks showed cheerfully. The two Miss 
Warrenders did not stop to knock or ring, but opened the door 
from the outside and went straight through the house, across 
the hall and a passage at tlie other end, to the garden beyond, 
where Mrs. Wilberforce sat under some great limes, with her 
little tea-table beside her. She was alone ; that is, as near 
alone as she ever Was, with only two of the little ones playing 
at her feet, and the Skye comfortably disposed on the cushions 
of a low wicker-work chair. Tlie two sisters kissed her, and 
disturbed tlie children’s game to kiss them, and displaced the 
little vSkye, who did not like it at all. Mrs. Wilterforce was a 


74 


-1 COUXTRY GENTLEMAN. 


little round-about woman, with fair hair and a permanent 
pucker on her forehead. She was very well off, — she and all 
her belongings ; the living was good, the parish small, the 
work not overpowering : but she never was able to shake off a 
visionary anxiety, the burden of some ancestral trouble, or the 
premonition of something to come. She was always afraid 
that something was going to happen; her husband to break 
down from overwork (which for clergymen, as for most other 
people in this generation, is the fashionable complaint), the 
parish to be invaded by Dissent and Socialism, the country to 
go to destruction. Tliis latter, as being the greatest, and at the 
same time the most distant, possibility, a thing which might 
happen eveji without disturbing one's individual comfort, was 
most frequently in her thoughts ; and she waited till it should 
occur, with always an anxious outlook for the first symptoms. 
She received Minnie and Chatty, who were her nearest neigh- 
bc<rs, and whom she saw almost daily, with a tone of interest 
and attachment beyond the ordinary, as she had done ever 
since their father's death. Indeed, they had found this every- 
where, a sort of natural compensation for their “ great loss.” 
They were surrounded by the respect and reawakened interest 
of all the people who were so familiar with them. A bereaved 
family have always this little advantage after a death. 

“ How are you, dears,” Mrs. Wilberforce said, “ and how is 
your dear mother?” Ordinarily Mrs. Warrender was spoken 
of as their mother, toute coiirte, without any endearing adjec- 
tive. 

“ Mamma is quite wonderful,” said Minnie. “ She thinks of 
everything and looks after everything almost as if— nothing 
had ever happened.” 

“She keeps up on our account,” said Chatty, “and for 
Theo's sake. " It is so important, you know, to keep home a 
little brightV-oh, I mean as little miserable as possible— for 
him.” 

“Bright, poor child!” said Mrs. Wilberforce pathetically, 
“You have not realized as yet what it is. When the excite- 
ment is all over, and you have settled down in your mourn- 
ing, then is the time when you will feel it. I always tell 
people the first six v’eeks are nothing ; you are so supported 
by the excitement. But afterwards, when everything falls in- 
to the old routine— I suppose, however, you are going away.” 

“ Mamma said something about it ; but we all preferred, you 
know ” — 


75 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

“ You had much better go away. I told you so the first 
time I saw you after the sad event. And as Theo lias all the 
Long before him before he requires to go back to Oxford, what 
is there to stop you ? ” Mrs. Wilberforce took great pleasure 
in settling other people's plans for them, and deciding what 
they were to do. 

“Tliat wasn’t what we came to talk about,” said the elder 
Miss Warrender, who was quite able to hold her own. “Mrs. 
Wilberforce, we have just come from old Mrs. Bagley’s at the 
shop : and there we made quite a painful discovery. We said 
what we could, but perhaps it would be well if you would in- 
terfere. I think, indeed, you ought to interfere with author- 
ity: or even, perhaps, the rector” — 

“What is it? I always thought that old body had a turn 
for Dissent. She will have got one of those people from High- 
combe to come out and hold a meeting: that is how they al- 
ways begin.” 

“Oh, no — a great deal worse than that.’’ 

“Minnie means worse in our way of thinking,” the younger 
sister explained. 

“I don’t know anything worse,” said the clergyman’s wife, 
“ than the bringing in of Dissent to a united parish, such as 
ours has been. But I know it will come. I am always expect- 
ing to hear of it: tilings go so fast, nowadays. What with radi- 
calism, and the poor people all having votes, and wliat you call 
progress, one never knows what to expect, except the worst. 
I always look for the worst. Well, what is it, then, if it isn’t 
Dissent ? ” 

Then Miss Warrender gave an account of the real state of 
affairs. “ The letter was there on the table, dated the Elms, 
Underwood, Highcombe, as if — as if it were a county family; 
just as we put it ourselves on our paper.” 

“But far finer than ours: gilt, and such paper! — polished 
and shining, and a quarter of an inch thick. Oh, much finer 
than ours I ” 

“Ours, of course, will be black-edged for along, longtime 
to come: there could not be any comparison,” said Minnie with 
a sigh. “But think of the assurance of such people ! I am so 
glad to have found you alone, for we couldn’t have talked 
about it before the rector. And I believe if we hadn’t gone in 
just at the right moment she would have accepted. I told her 
]namma would never employ her again.” 

“ I never had very much opinion of that little thing,” said 


76 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 

Mrs. Wilberforce. “ She is a great deal too fine. If her grand- 
mother had boon a sensible person, she would have put a stop 
to all tliose feathers and flowers and things.’’ 

“Still,” said Minnie, with some severity, “a young woman 
who is a dressmaker, and gets the fasliion-lx>oks, and is per- 
haps in the way of temptation, may wear a feather in her hat 
—but that is not to say that she should encourage immorality, 
and make for anybody who asks her, especially considering the 
way we have all taken her up.” 

“Who is it that encourages immorality?” said a different 
voice, over Mrs. Wilberforce’s head:— quite a different voice; 
a man’s voice, for one tiling, which always changes the atmos- 
phere a little. It was the rector himself, who came across the 
lawn in the ease of a shooting-coat, with his hands in his 
pockets. He wore a long coat when he went out in tne parish, 
but at homo there can be no doubt that he liked to be at his 
ease. He was a man who was too easy in general, and might 
perhaps, if his wife had not scented harm from the beginning, 
have compromised himself by calling at the Elms. 

“Oh, please!” cried Minnie, with a blush. “Mrs. Wilber- 
force will tell you. We really have not time to stay any 
longer. Not any tea, thank you. We must be running 
away.” 

“ There is nothing to be so sensitive about,” said the clergy- 
man’s wife. “ Of course Herbert knows that you must know; 
you are not babies. It is about Lizzie Hampson, the dress- 
maker, who has been asked to go to work at the Elms.” 

“Oh!” said the rector. He showed himself wonderfully 
reasonable, — more reasonable than any one could have ex- 
pected. “I wouldn’t let her go there, if I were you. It’s not 
a fit place for a girl.” 

“We are perfectlj^ well aware of that,” said Mrs. Wilber- 
force. “ I warned you from the beginning. But the thing is, 
who is to prevent her from going? Minnie has told her plainly, 
it appears, and I will sx)cak to her, and as lier clergyman I 
should think it was ycur duty to say a word; but whether we 
shall succeed, that is a different matter. These creatures seem 
to have a sort of real attraction for evei*y thing that is wrong.” 

“We all have that. I’m afniid, my dear.” 

‘ ‘ But not in that way. There may be a bias, but it doesn’t 
take the same form. Do sit down, girls, and take your tea, 
like reasonable creatures. She shall never enter the rectoiy, 
of course, if — and if you are sure Mrs. Warrender will back me 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 77 

up. But you know she is very indulgent, — more indulgent 
than I should be in her place. There was that story, you 
know, about Fanny, the laundry-maid. I don’t think we shall 
do much if your dear mother relents, and says the girl is peni- 
tent as soon as she cries. She ought to know girls better than 
that. A little thing makes them cry: but penitence,— that is 
getting rarer and rarer every day.” 

“ There would be no need for penitence in this case. The 
girl is a very respectable girl. Don’t let her go there, that’s all, 
and give me a cup of tea.” 

“Isn’t that like a man!” cried Mrs. Wilberforce. “Don’t 
let her go there, and give him a cup of tea 1 — the one just as 
easy as the other. I am sure I tell you often enough, Herbert, 
what with all that is done for them and said about them, the 
poor people are getting more and more unmanageable every 
day.” 

“Our family has always been liberal,” said Minnie. “I 
think the poor people have their rights just as we have. They 
ought to be educated, and all that.” 

“ Very well,” said the other lady; “when you have educa- 
ted them up to thinking themselves as good — oh, what am I say- 
ing? far better — than their betters, you’ll see what will come 
of it. I for one am quite prepared. I pity the poor who de- 
ceive themselves. Herbert chooses to laugh, but I can’t laugh; 
it is much too serious for that.” 

“ There will be peace in our days,” said the rector; “ and 
after all, Fanny, 'we can’t have a revolution coming because 
Lizzie Hampson ” — 

“ Lizzie Hampson,” said his wife solemnly, “ is a sign of the 
times. She may be nothing in lierself, — none of them are any- 
thing in themselves, — but I call lier a sign of the times/’ 

“What a gTand name for a little girl !” he said, with a 
laugh. But he added seriously, “I wish tliat house belonged 
to Theo, or some one we could bring influence to bear upon; 
but what does a city man cai’e ? I wish we could do as the 
Americans do, and put rollers under it, and cart it away put 
of the parish.” 

“ Can the Americans do that?” 

“ They say so. They can do every sort of wonderful thing, 
I believe.” 

“And that is what we are coming to! ’’said Mrs. Wilber.- 
force, with an air of indignant severity, as if this had been thp 
most dreadful UGCiisation in the world. 


78 .1 COVyiTRY GENTLE}, IAN. 

“ I suppose,-’ said tlie rector, strolling witli the young ladies 
to the gate, ' ‘ that Theo holds by the family politics. I wonder 
whether he has given any attention to public questions ? At 
his age a young fellow either does— or he does not,” he added, 
wdth a laugh. ‘ ‘ Oxford often makes a change.” 

“We don’t approve of ladies taking any part in politics,” 
said Minnie, “and I am sure I have never mentioned the sub- 
ject to Theo.” 

“ But you know, Minnie, mamma said that Theo was— well, 

I don’t remember Avhat she said he was ; but certainly not the 
same as he was brought up.” 

“Then let us hope he has become a Conservative. Land- 
holders ought to be, and the clergy must,” said the rector, with 
a sigh. Then he remembered that this was not a style of con- 
versation likely to commend itself to the two girls. “ I hope 
we shall see you back next Sunday at the Sunday-school,” he 
said. “ Of course 1 would not hurry you, if you found it too 
much ; but a little wmrk in moderation I have always thought 
was the very best thing for a grief like yours. Dear ]\Irs. 
Warrender, too,” he added softly. He had not been in the 
habit of calling her dear Mrs. WArrender ; but it seemed a 
term that was appropriate where there had been a death. “ I 
hope she does not quite shut herself up.” 

“ Mamma has been with Lady Markland several times,” said 
Minnie, with a mixture of disapproval and satisfaction. 
“ Naturally, w'e have been so much throwm together since” — 

“To be sure. What a sad thing !— twice in one house, with- 
in a w’eek, w’as it not, the two deaths? ” 

“ Just a w'^eek,” said Chatty, w^ho loved to be exact. 

“But you know Lord Markland was no relation,” added 
Minnie, too conscientious to take to herself the credit of a grief 
wiiich w’as not hers. “ It was not as if w^e felt it in that w’ay.” 

“ It w’as a dreadful thing to happen in one’s house, all the 
same. And Theo, I hear, goes a great deal to Markland. Oh, 
it is quite natural. He had so much to do for her from the 
first. And I liear she is a very attractive sort of woman, 
though I don’t know much of her, for my OAvn part.” 

■ “ Attractive? Well, perhaps she may be attractive, to some 
people,” said Minnie; “ but wiien a w^oman has been married 
so long as she has, one never thinks of her in that light — and 
her attractiveness has nothing to do with Theo,” she added, 
with some severity. 

“ Oh, no, I suppose not,” said the rector, “ Tell him I hope 


-1 cou.:tr:' a::::r:.K-AX. 7j 

\vc siiall soon see liiin iiero. for T cxpoct Ins friond DiokCaron- 
dish in the end of the week. Yon remember C'avendish ? lie 
told me he had met j'oii at Oxford.'’ 

“ Oh, yes,” replied Chatty cpaickly. Minnie, who vras not 
accustomed to be forstalled in speech, trod upon this little ex- 
clamation, as it were, and extinguished it. “Cavendish! I 
j am not sure. I think I do recollect the name,” she said. 

And tlien they shook hands with the rector across the gate, 
and went upon their way. But it was not for the first moment 
quite a peaceful way. “Y'ou were dreadfully ready to say 
you remembered Mr. Cavendish,” said the elder sister. “ What 
do you know of Mr. Cavendish ? If I were you, I would not 
speak so fast, as if Mr. Cavendish were of any importance.” 

“ Oh, no, he is of no importance ; only I do recollect him 
quite well. He gave us tea. He was veiy ” — • 

“ He was exactly like other young men,” said Miss Warren- 
der. And then they proceeded in silence, Chatty having no 
desire to contest the statement. She did not know very much 
about young men. 

Their way lay across the end of the village street, beyond 
which the trees of the Warren overshadowed everything. 
There was only a fence on that side of the grounds, and to 
look through it was like looking into the outskirts of a. forest. 
The rabbits ran about by hundreds among the roots of the 
trees. The birds sang as if in their own kingdom and secure 
possession. To this gentle savagery and dominjon of nature 
the Miss Warrenders were accustomed ; and in the freshness 
of the early summer it was sweet. They went on without 
speaking, for some time, and then it seemed wise to the 
younger sister to forestall furtlier remark by the introduction 
of a new subject, which, however, was not a usual proceeding 
on Chatty’s part. 

“ Minnie,” she said, “ do j^ou know what the rector meant 
when he was speaking of Lady Markland, — that she was an 
attractive woman ? You took him up rather sharply.” 

“No, I didn’t,” said Minnie, with that freedom of speech 
which is so pleasant among near relations. “ I said she was 
rather old for that.” 

• ‘ She is scarcely any older than you. I know that from the 
peerage. I looked her up.” 

“So did I,” said Miss Warrender. “That does not make 
lier a day younger or more attractive. She is four years older 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


than Theo : therefore she is as if she were not to liim. Four 
years is a dreadful difference when it is on the wrong side.” 

Chatty was ridiculously simple for a young person of three 
and twenty. She said, “I cannot think what that has to do 
Avith it. The rector is really very silly at times in what he 
says.” 

“I don’t see that he is silly. What he means is that Lady 
Markland will amuse herself Avith Theo, and that he Avili fa'A 
in love Avith her. I should say, for my part, that it is A^ery 
likely. haA^e seen a great many things of the kind, though 
you never open your eyes. He is always going to Markland to 
see AAdiat he can do, if there is anything she wants. He is 
almost sure to fall in love with her.” 

“ Minnie, a married woman ! ” 

“Oh, you little simpleton! She is not a married Avoman. 
she is a widow ; and she is left extremely AA^ell off and with 
everything in her hands, — that is to say, she AA’^ould be very 
Avell off if there was any money. A widoAv is in the best posi- 
tion of any woman. She can do what she likes, and nobody 
lias any right to object.” 

“ Oh, Minnie 1 ” protested the younger sister again. 

“You Can ask mamma, if you don’t believe me. But of 
course she would not have anytliing to say to Theo,” Miss 
Warrender said. 


XL 


“ When is Dick Cavendish coming ? ” said Mrs. Wilberforce 
to her husband. “ I wish he hadn’t chosen to come now, of 
all times in the world, just when we can do nothing to amuse 
him; for with the Warrenders in such deep mourning, and 
those other horrible people on the other side, and things in 
general getting worse and worse every day ” — 

“ He is not acquainted with the parish, and he does not 
know that things are getting worse and worse every day. It 
is a pity about the mourning; but do you think that is so 
deep that a game of croquet would be impossible ? Croquet 
is not a riotous game.” 

“Herbert!” cried Mrs. Wilberforce. She added in a tone 
of indignant disapproval, “ If you feel equal to suggesting 
such a thing to girls whose father has not yet been six weeks 
in his grave, I don’t.” 

The rector was reduced to silence. He was aware that the 
laws of decorum are in most cases better understood by ladies 
than by men, and also that the girls at the Warren would 
sooner die than do anything that was not according to the 
proper rule that regulated the conduct of persons in their 
present circumstances. He withdrew, accordingly, to his 
study, with rather an uneasy feeling about the visit of Dick 
Cavendish. The rector’s study was on the opposite side of 
the hall, at the end of a short passage, which was a special 
providence; for nothing that Mrs. Wilberforce could do would 
prevent him from smoking, and by this means the hall, at 
least, and the chief sitting-room were kept free of any sug- 
gestions of smoke. He said of himself that he was not such 
a great smoker: but there was no doubt that this was one of 
the crosses which his wife said everybody had to bear. That 
was her cross, her husband’s pipe, and she tried to put up 
with it like a Christian. This is one of the cases in which 
there is very often a conflict of evidence without anything 
that can be called perjury on either side: for Mrs. Wilberforce 
declared to her confidants (she would not have acknowledged 
it to the public for worlds) that her husband smoked morning, 
6 


82 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


noon, and night; whereas he, when the question was put to 
him casually, asserted that he was not at all a great smoker, 
though he liked a pipe when he was working, and a cigar 
after dinner. “When you are working! Then what a dili- 
gent life you must lead, for I think you are always working,” 
the wife would remark. “ Most of my time, certainly, dear,” 
said the triumphant husband. 

There are never very serious jars in a family where smoke 
takes so important a place. Mr. Wilberforce retired now, and 
took a pipe to help him to consider. The study was a commo- 
dious room, with a line of chairs against the further wall, 
where parish visitors generally sat, when the bumpkins had 
anything to say to the parson. A large writing-table, fitted 
with capacious drawers, stood in the middle of the room, of 
which one side was for parish business, the other magisterial: 
for the rector of Underwood was also a justice of the peace, 
and very active in that respect. He was a man who did not 
fail in his duty in any way. Ilis sermons he kept in a hand- 
some old carved-oak bureau against the wall, in which— for he 
had been a dozen years in Underwood, and had ■w'orked 
through all the fasts and feasts a great many times— he had 
made a careful classification, and knew where to put his hand 
on the Christmas sermons, and those for the saints’ days, and 
even for exceptional occasions, such as funerals, almost in the 
dark. There were two large windows, one of which opened 
upon the lawn, and the other round the corner, in the other 
wall of the house, commanded a pretty view of the village, 
lying with its red roofs in the midst of a luxuriant greenness. 
Saint Mary-under-wood was the true name of the parish, for 
it was situated in a part of the country very rich in trees. 

Here he sat down with his friend’s letter, and thought. The 
Cavendishes had once held an important position in the 
county, and lived in one of the greatest “ places ” in the 
neighborhood. But they had met with a fate not unknowui to 
the most important families, and had descended from their 
greatness to mediocrity, wdthout, how^ever, sacrificing every- 
thing, and indeed with so good a margin that, though they 
were no longer included among the most eminent gentry of 
England, they still held the place of a county family. They 
had shifted their headquarters to a much smaller house, but 
it w'as at the same time a very old property, and had been in 
the family longer than the greater one. The younger sons, 
however, had very little to look to, and Dick, who was con- 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


83 


sidered clever, was going to the bar. lie was a friend more or 
less, of young Warrender’s, and had been at Oxford with him, 
where he was junior to Theo in the university, though his 
senior in years. For Dick had been a little erratic in his ways. 
He liad not been so orderly and law-abiding as a young Eng- 
lish gentleman generally is He had gone away from home 
very young, and spent several years in wandering before he 
would address himself to serious life. He had been in Canada 
and in the backwoods, and though California was not known 
then as now, had spent a few months at the gold diggings, in 
the rude life and strife which English families, not yet ac- 
quainted with farming in Manitoba and ranches in the far 
West, heard of with horror: and where only those sons who 
were “ wild,’’ or otherwise unmanageable, had as yet begun 
to go. When he returned, and announced that he was going to 
Oxford and after that to the bar, it was like the vision of the 
madman clothed and in his right mind to his parents. This 
their son which had been lost was found. 

He came into a little fortune, left him by an uncle, when he 
returned; and, contrary to the general habit of families in re- 
spect to younger sons, his parents were of opinion that if some 
“ nice girl ” could be found for Dick it would be the best thing 
that could happen, — a thing which would lighten their own re- 
sponsibilities, and probably confirm him in well-doing. But 
with all the new-fashioned talk about education and work for 
women, which then had just begun, nice girls were not quite 
so sure as they used to be that to reclaim a prodigal, or con- 
solidate a penitence, was their mission in life. Perhaiis they 
are right; but the old idea was good for the race, if not for the 
individual woman, human sacrifices being a fundamental prin- 
ciple of natural religion, if not of any established creed. And 
it cannot be said that it was without some thought of finding 
there the appropriate victim that the prodigal had been invited 
to Underwood. He was not altogether a prodigal, nor would 
she be altogether a victim. People do nut use such hard 
words. He was a young fellow who wanted steadying, for 
whom married life (when he had taken his degree), or even an 
engagement, might be expected to do much. And she was “ a 
nice girl,” whose influence might be of the greatest advantage 
to him. What need to say any more? 

But it was tiresome for the Wilberforces that, after having 
made up this innocent little scheme for throwing him into the 
society of the Warrender girls, Dick should choose, of all 


84 


A COUNTBT GENTLEMAN. 


times in the world, to arrive at the rectory just after Mr. War» 
render’s death, when the family were in mourning, and not 
“equal to” playing croquet, or any other reasonable amuse- 
ment. It was hard, the rector thought. It was he indeed, 
rather than his wife, who had thrown himself into this project 
of match-making. The AVarrender girls were the most well- 
regulated girls in the world, and also the most likely to keep 
their resi^ective husbands straight; and Mr. Wilberforce 
thought it would be a very good thing for the girls themselves, 
who were so much out of the way of seeing eligible persons, 
or being sought. The rector felt that if Minnie Warrender 
once took the young man in hand he was safe. And they had 
already met at Oxford during Commemoration, and young 
Cavendish had remembered with pleasure their fresh faces and 
slightly, pleasantly, rustic and old-fashioned ways. He was 
very willing to come when he was told that the AYilberforces 
saw a great deal of Warrender’s nice sisters. “AATiy, I am in 
love with them both! Of course I shall eome,” he had said^ 
with his boyish levity: but with equal levity had put off from 
time to time, and at last had chosen the moment which was 
the least convenient, the most uncomfortable for all parties, — 
a moment when there could be nothing but croquet, or picnics, 
or other gentle pleasures which require feminine co-operation 
to amuse the stranger, and when the feminine co-operation 
which had been hoped for was for the time altogether laid on 
the shelf and out of the question. Few things could be more 
trying than this state of affairs. 

Notwithstanding which Dick Cavendish arrived, as had been 
arranged. There was nothing remarkable about his appear- 
ance. lie was an ordinary brown-haired, blue-eyed young 
man, — not, perhaps, ordinary, for that combination is rather 
rare, — but there were some people who said that something in 
his eye betrayed what they called insincerity; and indeed 
there was generally about him an agreeableness, a ready self- 
adaptation to everybody’s way of thinking, a desire to recom- 
mend himself, which is always open to censure. Mrs. AVilber- 
force was one of those wdio shook their heads and declared 
him to be insincere. And as he went so far as to agree that 
the empire very possibly was dropping to pieces, and the edu- 
cation of the poor tending to their and our destruction, in 
order to please her, it is possible that she was not far wrong. 
As a matter of fact, however, his tactics were successful even 
with her; and though she did not relinquish her deep-seated 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


85 


conviction, yet the young man succeeded in flattering and 
pleasing her, which was all that he wanted, and not that she 
should vouch for his sincerity. He was very sorry to hear that 
the Warrenders were in mourning. “1 saw the death in the 
papers,” he said, “ and thought for a moment that I had per- 
haps better write and put ofl coming, for some people look 
their worst in mourning. But then I reflected that some 
others look their best; and that hearts are soft, and a little ju- 
dicious consolation nicely administered” — 

Though it was not perhaps of a very high quality, the rector 
was delighted with his young friend’s wit. 

“It must be nicely administered,” he said, “but you will 
not find them inaccessible. They are the best girls in the 
world, too natural to make a fuss, as some girls do. He was a 
very insignificant, neutral-tinted kind of man. I cannot think 
why they should be supposed to be so inconsolable.” 

“Oh, Herbert!” said his wife. 

“ Yes, I know, my dear; but Oh, Herbert, is no argument. 
Nobody is missed so much as we expect, not the very best. 
Life may have to make itself a new channel, but it flows 
always on. And when the man is quite insignificant, like poor 
Mr. Warrender” — 

“ Don’t blaspheme the dead, Herbert. It is dreadful to hear 
you speak on such subjects, you are so cyntcal; and when even 
a clergyman takes up such opinions, what can we expect of 
other people?” Mrs.- Wilberf orce said, with marked disap- 
proval, as she left the gentlemen after dinner. She left them 
by the window going out to the lawn, which ran along all that 
side of the house. The drawing-room, too, opened upon it, 
and one window of the rector’s study; and the line of limes, 
very fine trees, which stood at a little distance, throwing a de- 
lightful shadow with their great silken mass of foliage over 
the velvety grass, made the lawn into a kind of great with- 
Hrawing-room, spacious and sweet. Mrs. Wilberforce had a 
little settlement at one end of this, with wicker-work chairs, a 
table for her work and one for tea, while her husband, at the 
other end, clinging to his own window, which provided a mode 
of escape in case anyone should appear to whom his cigar 
might be offensive, smoked and made himself comfortable, 
now and then throwing a few words at her between the puffs. 
While thus indulging himself he was never allowed to ap- 
proach more near. 

“lam afraid we have not very much amusement for you, 


86 


i'OUNTHV GENTLEMAN. 


the rector said. “There is nothing going on at this season; 
and the Warren, as my wife says, is shut up.” 

“Mot so much shut up but that one may go to see Warren- 
der? ” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“And in tliat case the ladies will be visible, too: for I enter- 
tained them, you know, in my rooms at Commem. They must 
at least ask me to tea. They owe me tea.” 

“ Well, if you are content with that. My wife is dreadfully 
particular, you know. I dare say we may be able to manage a 
game, for all Mrs. Wilberforce says; and if the worst comes to 
the worst, Dick, I suppose you can exist without the society 
of ladies for a few days.” 

“ So long as I have Mrs. Wilberforce to fall back upon, and 
Flo. Flo is growing very pretty, perhaps you don’t know? 
Parents are so dull to that sort of thing. But there is some- 
body else in the parish I have got to look after. What is their 
name? I can’t (recollect, but I know the name of the house. 
It is the Elms.” 

“The Elms, my dear fellow!” exclaimed the rector, with 
consternation. He turned pale with fright and horror, and, 
rising, w^ent softly and closed the window, which his wife had 
left open. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “don’t speak so 
loud; my wife might hear.” 

“Why shouldn’t she hear?” asked Dick, undaunted. 
“ There’s nothing wrong, is there ? I don’t remember the 
people’s name ” — 

“No, most likely not; one name will do as well as another,” 
said the rector solemnly. “ Dick, I know that a young fellow 
like you looks at things in another light from a man of my 
cloth; but there are things that can be done, and things that 
can’t, and it is simply impossible, you know, that you should 
visit at a place like that from my house.” 

“ What do you mean by a place like that ? I know nothing 
about the place. It belongs to my uncle Cornwall, and there 
is something to be done to it, or they won’t stay.” 

The Hector drew a long breath. “You relieve me very 
much,” he said. “ Is the Mr. Cornwall that bought the Elms 
your uncle Cornwall ? "What luck for us ! Then you must 
tell him, Dick,— there’s a good fellow,— to do nothing to 
it, but for the love of Heaven help us to get those people 
away.” 

“Who are the people?” said the astonished Dick. It is 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


87 


laucertain whether Mr. Wilberforce managed to make any 
articulate reply, but he stammered forth some broken words, 
which, with the pauses that accompanied them, gave to his 
visitor an idea of the fact which had been for a month or two 
whispered, with bated breath, by the villagers and people 
about. Dick, who was still nominally of the faction of the 
reprobates, fell a-laughmg when the news penetrated his 
mind. It was not that his sympathies were with vice as 
against virtue, as the rector was disposed to believe; but the 
thought of the righteous and straight-laced uncle, who had 
sent him into what would have been to Mr. Cornwall the very 
jaws of hell, and of what might have happened had he him- 
self, Dick, announced in Mrs. Wilberforce’ s presence his com- 
mission to the Elms, was too comical to be resisted : and the 
peals of his laughter reached the lady on the lawn, and 
brought the children running to the dining-room window to 
see what had happened. Flo, of whom Dick had said that she 
was getting pretty, but who certainly was not shy, and had no 
fear of finding herself out of place, came pertly and tapped at 
the window, and, looking in with her little sunny face, de- 
manded to know what was the fun, so that Dick buist forth 
again and again. The rector did not see the fun, for his part; 
he saw no fun at all. Even when Dick, almost weeping with 
the goodness of the joke, endeavored to explain how droll it 
was to think of his old uncle sending him to such a house, 
Mr.’ Wilberforce did not see it. “ My wife will ask me what 
you were laughing about, and how am I to tell her ? She will 
see no joke in it: and she will not believe that 1 was not 
laughing with you— at all that is most sacred, Fanny will say.” 
No one who had seen the excellent rector at that moment 
would have accused him of sharing in the laughter, for his 
face was as blankly serious as if he had been at a funeral: but 
he knew the view which Mrs. AVilberforce was apt to take. 

And his fears came so far true that he did undergo a rigid 
cross-questioning as soon as the guest was out of the way. 
And although the rector was as discreet as possible, it yet 
' became deeply impressed upon the mind of his wife that the 
fun had something to do with the Elms. That gentlemen did 
joke upon such subjects, which were not fit to be talked about, 
she -was fully aware, but that her own husband, a man privi» 
leged beyond most men, a clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
land, should do it was bitter indeed to her “ I know what 


88 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


young men are,” she said; “ they are all the same. T know 
there is nothing that amuses and attracts them so much as 
improper people. But, Herbert, you ! and when vice is at our 
very doors, to laugh! Oh, don’t say another word to me on 
the subject!” Mrs. Wilberforce cried. 


XIL 


The recollection of that unexplained and ill-timed merri- 
ment clouded over the household horizon in the morning; but 
Dick was so cheerful and so much at his ease that things 
ameliorated imperceptibly. The heart of a woman, even when 
most disapproving, is softened by the man who takes the 
trouble to make himself agreeable to her children. She 
thought that there could not be so very much harm in him, 
after all, when she saw the little ones clustering about him, 
one on his knees and one on his shoulders. “ There is a sort 
of instinct in children,’'’ she said afterwards, and most people 
would be in this respect of Mrs. Wilberforce’s opinion. About 
noon the rector took his guest to call at the Warren. Though 
this was not what an ordinary stranger would have been justi- 
fied in doing, yet when you consider that Dick had known 
Theo at Oxford and had entertained the ladies at Commem : 
you will understand why the rector took this liberty. “I 
suppose I may ask the girls and Theo to come over in the 
afternoon,” he said to his wife. 

“Oh, certainly, Herbert, you may ask them,” she replied; 
but with a feeling that ii Minnie accepted it would be as if 
the pillars of the earth had been shaken; though, in the cir- 
cumstances, with a young man on her hands to be amused for 
an the lingering afternoon, Mrs. Wilberforce herself would 
have been very willing that they should come. Dick Caven- 
dish was a pleasant com'panion for a morning walk. He ad- 
mired the country in its fresh greenness, as they went along, 
though its beauty was not striking. He admired the red 
village, clustering under the warmth and fulness of the fol- 
iage, and pleased the rector, who naturally felt his own 
amour propre concerned in the impression made by his parish 
upon a new spectator. “We must come to old England for 
this sort of thing,” said Dick, looking back upon the soft 
rural scene with the half-patronizing experience of a man qui 
en a m Men d’autres. And the rector was pleased, especially 
as it was not all undiscriminating praise. When they got 
within the grounds of the Warren, criticism came in. “ What 


90 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


does Warreiider mean,” Dick said, “by letting everything run 
up in this wild way! The trees have no room to breathe.” 

“ You must recollect that Theo has just come into it. And 
the old gentleman was long feeble, and very conservative,— 
though not ill politics, as I could have wished.” 

“ Ah, I thought Warrender was a bit of a radical: but they 
say a man always becomes more or less a Tory when he comes 
into his property. I have no experience,” said Dick, with his 
light-hearted laugh. Had Mrs. Wilberforce heard him, she 
W'ould have found in it that absence of respect for circum- 
stances wiiicli she considered to be one of the signs of the 
times; and it had a startling and jarring effect upon the indi- 
vidual who did hear it, who was disturbed by it in the still- 
ness of his morning walk and thoughts. It broke the silence 
of the brooding air, and aw^akened impertinent echoes every- 
wdiere. Nature being always glad of the opportunity. 

The young owuier of the place was absorbed in a warm haze 
of visions, like his own trees in the hush of the noon. Any 
intrusion was disagreeable to him. Nevertheless, when he 
saw the rector he came forward with that consciousness of 
the necessity of looking pleased which is one of the vexations 
of a recluse. What did Wilberforce mean by bringing men 
here, where nobody wanted either them or him ? But when 
he saw who it was who accompanied the rector, Warrender’ s 
face and the line of annoyance in his forehead softened a 
little; for Dick was one of the men who are everywhere 
welcome. Warrender even smiled as he held out his hand. 

“You, Cavendish! Who could have thought of seeing you 
here!” 

“ I am afraid I am rather presuming: but 1 could not be so 
near without coming to see you.” Dick grew grave, as was 
incumbent in the circumstances, and though he had no doubt 
whatever of seeing the ladies added a sort of humble sugges- 
tion: “I am afraid I can scarcely hope to pay my respects ?” 

“ You must come in and see my mother,” Warrender said. 

The house looked its best when shade and coolness were a 
necessity of the season; but the visitor who came with keen 
eyes, observing everything, not because he had any special ob- 
ject, but because he could not help it, took in in a moment the 
faded air of solid respectability, the shabbiness which does not 
mean poverty, the decent neglect as of a place whose inhabit- 
ants took no thought of such small matters, which w^as appar- 
ent everywhere. It was not neglect, in the ordinary meaning 


A COUNTEY GENTLEMAN. 


01 


of the word, for all was carefully and nicely arranged, fresh 
flowers on the tables, and signs of living, but rather a composed 
and decorous content. The girls, as they were always called, 
were found, Chatty with her hands full of flowers and a num- 
ber of china vases before her, standing at an old buffet in the 
hall, and Minnie just coming out of the dining-room, where she 
had been doing her morning needle-work, which was of a plain 
and homely description, not calculated to be seen by visitors. 
The old buffet in the hall was not like the mahogany cata- 
falques in the other rooms, and the flowers "w ere veiy fieshand 
the china of unappreciated antiquity. Perhaps these accesso- 
ries helloed to make the modest little picture of Charlotte ar- 
ranging the flowers a pretty one; and she was young and fresh 
and modest and unconscious; her figure was pretty and light; 
her look as she raised her head and blushed to see the little 
party of men, so guileless, frank, and good, that, though the 
others, who were used to her, thought nothing of her, to Dick 
it appeared that Chatty was a very pleasant thing to see against 
the dim background of the old respectable house. 

It is Mr. Cavendish,” said Minnie. “ How curious ! It is true 
sometimes, no doubt, as everybody says, that talk of an angel 
and you hear its wings ; but generally it is'just the person whom 
one least thinks of who appears.” 

“ That is very hard upon me,” said Dick. “ My mind has 
been so full of you for twenty-four hours that you ought to have 
thought a little upon me— if only on the theory of brain 
waves.” 

“ I hope you don’t believe in anything of that sort. How 
should one think of people when there is nothing to put one 
in mind of them? If we had been in Oxford, indeed— Come 
into the drawing-room ; we shall find mamma there. And how 
is dear Mrs. Wilberforce ? ” 

“ She wants you all,” said the rector, in a low voice, aside, “ to 
come over this afternoon to tea.” 

“To tea, when you have company! Oh, she could not — she 
never could expect such a thing!” 

“ Do you call one of your brother’s friends company,— one? 
I should say it took three at least to constitute company. And 
I want Theo to come. Mind what I say— if you don’t amuse 
him, Theo will think of nothing but going to Markland. He 
goes to ^Nlarkland more than I like already.” 

“ Mr. Wilberforce, I am not one that believes in love being 
blind, and I know all Theos faults; but to think that he is 


92 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

courting amusement, — amusement, and papa only dead six 
weeks!” 

“I did not say amusement,” said the rector crossly. I 
said to be amused, which is quite different; not to be left for- 
ever in the same state of mind, not to lie vacant ” — 

“ You must have a very poor opinion of him and of all of us,” 
said Miss Warrender, leading the way into the drawing-room, 
where the others had gone before them. Chatty remained be- 
hind, being still busy with her flowers. The rector and Min- 
nie were supposed to be talking parish talk, and to have lin- 
gered for that purpose. Chatty thought it sounded too an- 
imated to be all about the clothing club and the mothers’ meet- 
ings, but she supposed that some one must have gone wrong, 
which was generally the exciting element in parish talk. She 
was not herself excited by it, being greatly occupied how to make 
the big white Canterbury bells stand up as they ought in the 
midst of a large bouquet, in a noble white and blue Nankin 
vase, which was mea»t for the table in the hall. 

Mrs. Warrender was very glad to see young Cavendish. She 
asked at once if they were going to take him to Hurst Hill and 
the old castle at Pierrepoint, and entered almost eagerly into a 
description of what should be done for a stranger. “ For we 
have scarcely anything, except the country itself, to show, 
she said. “ There is nothing that is exciting, not much so- 
ciety, and unfortunately, at this moment, the little that there 

W<IS 

“I know,” said Dick, “it is my misfortune; I was deeply 
sorry to hear ”- He had never seen Mr. Warrender, and natur- 
ally could have no profound regret on the subject: but his 
eyes expressed so much tender sympathy that her heart was 
touched, and tears came to her eyes. - , . j 

“You are very kind to take apart in our sorrows,” she said. 
“ If all had been well with us, there would have been no one 
more pleased than he to make our country pleasant to you. He 
was always so much interested in Theo’s friends. But even 
as things are, if you do not find it too sad, we shall always be 
glad to see you. Not that we have anything to tempt you,” 
she added, with a smile. 

“ Then, Mrs. Warrender,” said the rector, “ may I tell my wife 

that you are not going away ?” 

ISIrs. Warrender cast a wistful look round her, at her son, 
at the remorseless inclosure of those dull walls, which were 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


93 


like those of a prison. “ It appears not. for the present,” she 
said. 

“ No,” said Minnie ; “for where can we he so well as at home ? 
For my part, I don’t believe in change. What do you change ? 
Only the things about you. You can’t change yourself nor 
your circumstances.” 

“ The skies, but not the soul,” said Dick. 

- “ That is just what I mean, Mr. Cavendish. I see you under- 
stand. Mamma thinks it would be more cheerful to go away. 
But we don’t really want to be cheerful. Why should we be 
cheerful ?— at least for six months, or I sliould say a year. We 
can’t be supposed to be equal to anything, after our great loss, 
in less than a year.” 

At this they were all silent, a little overawed; and then Mrs. 
Warrender returned to her original discourse upon Pierrepoint 
Castle and the dell at Hurst: “ They are both excellent places 
for picnics. You should take Mr. Cavendish there.” 

“ That was all very well,” said the rector, “ when we could 
be sure of you and the girls to go with us; but he must be con- 
tent with the domestic croquet and the mild gratification of 
walks, in present circumstances. Has Theo come to any de- 
cision about the improvements ? I suppose you will not begin 
to cut down till the autumn ?” 

“ Everything is at a standstill, Mr. Wilberforce.” 

“Well,” said Theo, almost angrily, turning to the rector, 
“ there is no hurry, I hope. One need not start, axe in hand, 
as if one had been waiting for that. There is time enough, in 
autumn or in spring, or when it happens to be convenient. I 
am in no haste, for my part.” 

There was again a little pause, for there had been temper in 
Theo’s tones. And then it was that the rector distinguished 
himself by the most ill-timed question,— a question which 
startled even Chatty, who was coming in at the moment with 
a bowl full of roses, carried in both hands. Yet it was a very 
innocent-seeming question, and Cavendish was not aware of 
any significance in it till he saw the effect it pioduced. 
“ How^’ said Mr. Wilberforce very distinctly, “ is Lady Mark- 
land?” He was looking straight at Theo, but as the words 
came out of his mouth, struck too late by their inappropriate- 
ness, he turned and looked Mrs. Warrender in the face some- 
what severely. 

“ Oh! ” she said, as if some one ha-d struck her; and as for 
Warrender, he sprang to his feet, and walked across the room 


94 


A COUJVTBT GLWTLJSMAJ^. 


to one of the windows, where he stood pulling to pieces a 
vase-full of Chatty’s flowers. She put clown her roses, and 
stood with her hands dropped and her mouth a little open, a 
picture of innocent consternation, which, however, was caused 
more by the effect upon the others than by any clear perception 
in herself. All this was in a moment, and then Mrs. Warren- 
fler replied sedately, “ The last time I saw her she was well 
enough in health. Sor — trouble,” she added, changing the 
word, “ does not always affect the health.” 

“ And does she mean to stay there?” the rector said, feeling 
it necessary to follow up his first question. Mrs. Warrender 
hesitated, and began to reply that she did not know, that she 
believed nothing was settled, that — when Theodore suddenly 
turned and took the words out of his mother’s mouth: — 

“ Why shouldn’t she stay? The position is just the same 
for her as for us. Death changes little except to the person 
immediately concerned. It is her home; why shouldn’t she 
stay? ” 

“ Really,” said the rector, “ you take it so seriously, I — when 
you put the question to me, I — As a matter of fact,” he 
added, “ I did not mean anything, if I must tell the truth. I 
just said the first thing that occurred. And a change is 
always the thing that is first thought of after such a — after 
such a” — The rector sought about for a word. He could 
not say calamity, or affliction, or any of the w^ords that are 
usually employed. He said at last, Avith a sense of having got 
triumphantly over the difficulty — “ such a shock.” 

“ 1 agree Avitli the rector,” said Minnie. “ It would be far 
better that she should go aw^ay, for a change. The circum- 
stances are quite different. For a lady to go and look after 
everything herself, w^heii it ought not to be supposed possible 
that she could do anything — to see the law'yers, and give the 
orders, and act exactly as if nothing had happened — oh, it is 
too dreadful! It is quite different from us. And she does 
not even wear a widow^’s cap! That would be reason enough 
for going away, if there was nothing else. She o\iglit to go 
away for the first year, not to let anybody know that she has 
never worn a widow’s cap.” 

“Now that is a very clever reason,” said Dick Cavendish, 
who felt it was time for him to interfere, and lessen the 
serious nature of the discussion. “ Unaided, I should never 
have thought of that. Do at Rome as Rome does; or if you 
don’t, go out of Rome, and don’t expose yourself. There is a 
whole system of social philosophy in it.” 

“ Oh, I am not a philosopher,” cried Minnie, “ but I know 
what I think. I know' wdiat my opinion is.” 

“ We are not here to criticize ^ady Markland,” said her 
mother; and then she burst into an unpremeditated invita- 
tion, to break the spell. “ You will bring Mr. Cavendish to 
dine with us one evening? ” she said. • “ He and you wih 
excuse the dulness of a sad house.” 


A COUNTIiY GENTLEMAN. 


95 


The rector felt his breath taken from him, and thought of 
what his wife would say. “ If you are sure it will not be 
too much for you,” he replied. 

Dick’s eyes and attention were fixed upon the girls. Min- 
nie’s face expressed the utmost horror. She opened her 
m3uth to speak; her sharp eyes darted dagger thrusts at her 
mother; it was evident tliat she was bursting with remon- 
strance and denunciation. Chatty, on the contrary, glanced 
at her mother, and then at the stranger, with a soft look of 
pleasure stealing over her face. It softened still more the 
rounded outline, the rose tints, which were those of a girl of 
seventeen rather than twenty-three, and which her black dress 
brought out with double force. Dick thought her quite pretty 
— nay, very pretty — as she stood there, her sleeves thrust a 
little back on her arms, her hands a little wet with the flowers, 
her face owning a half-guilty pleasure of which she was half 
ashamed. The others were involved in thoughts quite differ- 
ent: but innocent Chatty, relieved by the slightest liftino- of 
the cloud, and glad that somebody should be coming to din- 
ner, was to him tiic central interest of the group. 

“ You put your foot in it, I think,” ho said to the rector, as 
they walk id back, ‘‘but I could not quite make out how. 
Who is tho unhappy woman, lost to all sense of shame, who 
wears no widow’s cap? ” 

I meant no harm,” said the rector. It was quite natural 
that I should ask after Lady Markland. Of course it stands to 
reason that as he died here, and they were mixed up with the 
whole business, and she is not in my parish, they should know 
more of her than I.” 

“ And so old Warren ler is mixed up with a beautiful 
widow,” said Dick. “ He doesn’t seem the sort of fellow; 
but I suppose somethin j of that sort comes to most men, one 
time or another,” he added, with a half laugh. 

“Whit, a widow?” slid the rector, with a smile. “Eh? 
What are you saying? What is that? Well, as j’^ou ask, that 
is the Elms, Cavendish, wher'' I suppose you no longer have 
any desire to go.” 

“Oh, that is the Elms, is it?” said Cavendish. His voice 
had not its usual cheerful sound. He stood still, with an 
interest which the rector thought quite uncalled for. The 
Elms was a red brick house, tall like the rectory, and of a 
similar date, the upper stories of which appeared over a high 
wall. The quick shutting of a door in this wall was the thing 
which had awakened the interest of Cavendish. A girl had 
come hurriedly, furtively out, and with the apparent intention 
of closing it noiselessly had let the door escape from her hand, 
and marked her departure by a clang which for a moment 
filled the air. She looked round her hastily, and with a face 
in which a very singular succession of emotions were painted 
perceived the gentlemen. The first whom she noticed was 
evidently the rector, to whom she gave a glance of terror; but 


06 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


then turned to Dick, with a look of amazement which seemed 
to take every other feeling away, — amazement and recogni- 
tion. She stared at him for a moment as if paralyzed, and 
then, fluttering like a bird, in her light dress, under the high, 
dark line of the wall, hurried away. 

“Bless me,” said the rector, troubled, “Lizzie Hampson! 
Now I recollect that was what the ladies were saying. Silly 
girl, she has gone, after all; but I must put a stop to it. How 
she stared at you, Dick, to Idc sure!” 

“ Yes, she has got a sharp pair of eyes. 1 think she will 
know me again,” said Dick, with what seemed to the lector 
somewhat forced gayety. “ Bather a pretty little girl, all the 
same. What did you call her? Is she one of your parishion- 
ers ? She looked mighty frightened of you.” 

“Lizzie Hampson,” said the rector. “She is the grand- 
•daughter of the old woman at the shop. She is half a for- 
eigner, I believe. I always thought. — Bless me! Fanny will 
be very sorry, but very angry, too, I am afraid. I wish I had 
not seen it. I wish wc had not come this way.” 

“Do you think yon are obliged to tell? It was only b; 
accident that we saw her,” said Cavendish. “It would hur!, 
nobody if you kept it to yourself.” 

“ 1 dare say the poor little thing meant no harm,” said the 
rector; “it is natural to want to make a little more money. 
I am entering into temptation, but I cannot help it. Do you 
think, after all, 1 might eay nothing about seeing her? We 
should not have seen hcr^ yon know", if we had come home the 
other way.” 

“ Give her the benefit of the possibility,” said Dick, with a 
short laugh. But he seemed to be affected, too, which Avas 
W"onderfully sympathetic and nice of him, rvith what troubled 
the rector so much. He scarcely talked at all for the rest of 
the way. And though he was perhaps as gay as ever at lunch, 
there came over him, from time to time, a curious abstraction, 
quite out of character Avith Dick Cavendish. In the afternoon, 
W’’arrender and Chatty came in, as they had been invited, to 
tea (not Minnie, Avhich srtisfied Mrs. Wilberforce’s sense of 
right), and a very quiet game of croquet, a sort of Avhisper of 
a game, under their breath, as it Avere, Avas played. And in 
this way the day passed. The visitor declared in the evening 
that he had enjoyed himself immensely. But he had a head- 
ache, and instead of coming in to prayers Avent out in the dark 
for a walk; which Avas not at all the sort of thing Avhich Mrs. 
Wilberforce liked her visitors to do. 


xm. 


Dick Cavendish went out for a walk. It was a little chilly 
after the beautiful day; there was rain in the air, and neither 
moon nor stars, which in the country, where there are no 
means of artificial lighting, makes it unpleasant for walking 
He went right into the big clump of laurels, and speared him- 
.^elf on the prickles of the old hawthorn before he emerged 
from the rectory gates. After that it was easier. Many of 
the cottage people were indeed going to bed, but by the light 
which remained in a window here and there he was able to 
preserve himself from accident as he strolled along. Two or 
three dogs, sworn enemies to innovation, scented him, and 
protested at their loudest against the novelty, not to say 
wickedness, of a passenger at this hour of the night It was, 
perliaps, to them what Lizzie Hampson’s independence was to 
INIrs. Wiiberforce, — a sign of the times. lie made his Avay 
along, stumbling now and then, sending into the still air the 
odor of his cigar, towards the spot where the window of the 
little shop shone in the distance like a low, dim, somewhat 
smoky star, the rays of which shaped themselves slightly iri- 
descent against the thick damp atmosph'ere of the night. 
Cavendish went up to this dull shining, stared in at the window 
for a moment'through the bottles of sweets and barley sugar 
and boxes of mustard and biscuits. He did not know there 
was any special significance in the sight of Lizzie Ilampson 
seated there within the counter, demurely sewing, and appar 
ently unconscious of any spectators, but it was enough to have 
startled any of the neighbors who were aware of Lizzie’s ways 
The old gi-andmother had gone to see her daughter in the 
village, who was ill; but in such cases it was Lizzie’s M^ay to 
leave the door of the room in -which she sat open, and to give 
a very contemptuous attention to the tinkle of the little bell 
attached to the shop door which announced a customer. Now, 
however, she sat in the shop, ready to supply anything that 
might be wanted. Dick strolled past quietly, and went a little 
way on beyond: but then he came back. He did not linger at 
the window as one of Lizzie’s admirers might have done. He 
7 


98 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


passed it twice; then, with a somewhat anxious ^aze around 
him, went in. He asked for macthes, with a glance at the 
open door of the room behind. Lizzie said nothing, but some- 
thing in her look gave him as well as words could have done 
an assurance of safety. He had closed the door of the shop 
behind him. He now said quickly, “ Then I was not mistaken 
— it is you, Lizzie.^’ 

There was not the slightest appearance in lier of a rustic 
dirt waiting for a lover, still less of anything more objection- 
able. Her look was serious, full of resistance and even of de- 
liance, as if the encounter was against her will, though it was 
neeessary that it should be. “Yes, sir,'’ she said, shortly, 
“ you were not mistaken, and it is me.” 

“ And what ai-e yoii doing here ? ” 

“Nothing that isn’t right,” said Lizzie. “I’m living with 
my grandmother, as any one will tell you, and working at my 
trade.” 

“Well— tliat is all right,” he said, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion. 

“ I don’t suppose that you sought me out just for that, sir, 
— to give me your approbation,” the girl said, quickly. 

“For which you don’t care at all,” he replied, with a half- 
laugh. 

“No more than you care for what I’m doing, whether it’s 
good or bad.” 

“Well,” he said, “I suppose so far as that goes we are 
about eten, Lizzie: though I, for one, should be sorry to hear 
any liarm of you. Do you ever hear anythmg — of your mis- 
tress — that was ? ” 

She gave him a keen look. All the time her hands were 
busy with a little pile of match-boxes, the pretence which was 
to explain his presence had any one appeared. “ She is — liv- 
ing, if that is what you mean,” Lizzie said. 

“Living! Oh, yes, I suppose so, — at her age. Is she — where 
she was ?” 

Lizzie looked at him, again investigating his taee Keenly, 
and he at her. They were like two antagonists in a duel, each 
on his guard, each eagerly observant of every point at which 
he could obtain an advantage. At last, “Where \vas that, 
sir?” she said. “ I don’t know where you heard of her last.” 

Diek made no answer. It was some moments before he 
spoke at all. Then, “ Is she in England ? ” he asked. 

“ I’m not at liberty, sir, to .say where she is.” 


A CO UN THY GENTLEMAN. 


99 


“ You know, of course. I can see that in your face. Is she — 
But perhaps you don’t intend to answer any question I put to 
you ? ” 

“ I think not, sir,” said Lizzie, firmly. “What would be 
the good ? She don’t want you, nor you” — 

“ Nor I her. It is true,” he said. His face became very 
grave, almost stern. “ I have little reason to wish to know. 
Still you must be aware that misery is the end of such a way 
of life.” 

“ Oh, you need give yourself no trouble about that,” cried 
Lizzie, with something like scorn; “she is a deal better off 
and more thought upon than ever she would have been if” — 

“ Poor girl! ” he said. These words and the tone in which 
they were spoken stopped the quick little angry speech that 
was on Lizzie’s lips. She wavered for a moment, then recov- 
ered herself. 

“If you please,” she said, “to take your matches, sir. It 
ain’t general for gentlemen like you to come into granny’s 
shop: and we think a deal of little things here. It is not as if 
we were — on the other side.” 

He laughed with a sort of fierce ridicule that offended the 
girl. “ So — I might be supposed to be coming after you,” he 
said. 

She flung the matches to him across the counter. “ There 
may be more difference here than there was there; but a gen- 
tleman, if he is a gentleman, will be civil wherever he is.” 

“ You are quite right,” said Dick, recovering himself, “and 
I spoke like a fool. For all that you say, misery is the end of 
such a life; and if I could help it I should not like her to come 
to want.” 

“Oh!” cried Lizzie, with exasperation, stamping her foot. 
“ Want! You are more like to come to it than she is. I could 
show you in a moment— I could just let you see ” — Here she 
paused, and faltered, and grew red, meeting his eyes. He did 
not ask any further question. He had grown pale as she grew 
red. Their looks exchanged a rapid communication, in whicli 
neither Lizzie’s reluctance to speak nor his hesitation in nsk- 
ing was of any avail. He put down the sixpence which he 
had in his hand upon the counter, and went out into the night 
in a dumb confusion of mind, as if he had received a blow. 

Here! breathing the same air, seeing the same sights, within 
reach ! He went a little further on in the darkness, not know- 
ing where, nor caring, in the bewilderment of the shock which 


100 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


}rad come upon him so unexpectecUy ; and suddenly in the 
dark was aware of a range of lighted windows which seemed 
to hang high in the air,— the windows of the Elms appearing- 
over the high garden wall. He went along towards the house 
mechanically, and only stopped when his shoulder rubbed 
against the bricks, near the spot where in the morning he had 
seen Lizzie come out. The lights moved about from window 
to window; the house seemed full of movement and life; and 
within the wall of the garden there was a sound of conversa- 
tion and laughter. Hid he recognize the voices, or any one 
among them? He did not say so even to himself, but turned 
round and hurried back, stumbling through the darkness 
which hid and blinded him. In the village he met a woman 
with a lantern, who he did not doubt was Lizzie’s grand- 
mother, the village authority; no doubt a gossip, quite dis- 
l)osed to search into other people's mysteries, quite unaware 
of tlie secret story which had connected itself with her own. 
She passed him in a little mist of light in the midst of the 
dark, raising her head instinctively as he passed with a sense 
of something unfamiliar, but of course not seeing who he 
was. Presently he found his way again amid the clumps of 
lilac, which had done blooming, and guided by the sweetness 
of the hawthorn against which he had spiked himself on his 
way out. Mrs. Wilberforce was going up stairs with her candle 
as he came in. She looked at him disapprovingly, and hoped, 
with something like irony, that he. had enjoyed his walk. 
“Though you must have had to grope along in the dark, 
which does not seem much of a pleasure to me.” 

“ The air is delightful,” said Dick with unnecessary fervor. 
“I like a stroll in the dark; and the lights in the cottages are 
pretty to see.” 

“Dear me, I should have thought everybody was in bed; 
but late hours are creeping in with other things,” said the 
rector’s wife as she went up stairs. The rector himself was 
standing at the door of his study, with nn unlighted pipe in 
his hand. “ Come and have a smoke,” he said. For a moment 
it occui-red to Cavendish, though rather as a temptation than 
as a relief, to tell the story which seemed to fill his mind like 
something palpable, leaving room for nothing else, to his 
simple-minded, rural friend, an older man than himself and a 
clergyman, and therefore likely to have received other con- 
fidences before now. But something sealed his lips. The at- 
mosphere of the house, the narrow life with its thousand little 


A COUNTHY GENTLEMAN. 


101 


occupations, in which there was an ideal yet prosaic iii' 
nocence, an incapacity even to understand those elements of 
which tragedy is formed, made his own story almost to him- 
self inconceivable. How could he tell it, — how reveal any- 
thing so alien to every possibility! He might have told the 
^ good Wilberforce had he been in debt or in love, or asked his 
help for any light difficulty in which the parson might have 
played the part of mediator, whether with an angry lather or 
an irritated creditor. Wilberforce would have made an excel- 
lent confidant in such cases, but not in this. 

In debt or in love:— in love! Hick Cavendish’s character 
was well known; or so, at least, everybody thought. He was 
always in love, just as he was always in good spirits, — a fellow 
full of frolic and fun, only too light-hearted to take life 
with sufficient seriousness; and life must be taken seriously if 
you are going to make anything of it. This had been said to 
him a great many times since he came home. There was no 
harm known of him, as there generally is of a young man who 
lets a few years drop in the heyday of life. He liked his fun, 
the servants said, which was their way of putting it; and his 
parents considered that he did not take life with sufficient 
seriousness; the two verdicts were the same: but the people 
most interested in him had almost unanimously agreed in that 
theory, of which mention has been already made, about the 
“nice girl.” He was himself aware of the plan, and had got 
much amusement out of it. Whether it came to anything or 
not, it at least promised him a great deal of pleasure. Scores 
of nice girls had been invited to meet him, and all his relatives 
and friends had laid themselves out thus to make a reformed 
character of Dick. He liked them all, he declared; they were 
delightful company, and he did not mind how many he was 
presented to; for what can be nicer than a nice girl? and to 
see how many of them there were in the world was exhilarat- 
ing to a man fresh out of the backwoods. As he had never 
once approached the limits of the serious, or had occasion to 
ask himself what might be the- end of any of the pleasant 
triflings into which his own temperament, seconding tlie plots 
of his friends, carried him lightly, all had gone quite well and 
easily, as Dick loved the things about him to go. But siTd- 
denly, just when an unexpected break had taken place in the 
pleasant surface of affairs, and dark remembrances, never for- 
gotten, had got uppermost in his mind — on this night of all 
others, when those two words, “ in love,” floated into his coin 


102 


A (JOUI^ TRY GENTLEMAN. 


sciousiiess, there rose up with them a sudden apparition,-* 
the ligure, light, yet not shadowy, of Chatty Warrendcr, hold- 
ing the bowl of roses with both hands, and with that look of 
innocent surprise and pleasure in her face. Who can account 
for such appearances? She walked into his imagination at 
the mere passage of these words thiough his head, stepping 
across the threshold of his fancy with almost as strong a sen- 
sation of reality as if she had pushed open his door and come 
into the room in which he was to all appearance quite tran- 
quilly taking o£E his boots and changing his coat to join the 
rector in the study below. He had seen a great many girls 
more beautiful, more clever, more striking in every way, than 
Chatty. He had not been aware, even, tliat he had himself 
distinguished her; yet there she was, with her look, which 
was not addressed to him, yet perhaps was more or less on 
account of him, — that look of unexpected pleasure. Was it 
on his account? No; only because in the midst of the dul- 
ness some one was asked to dinner Bah ! he said to himself, 
and tossed the boot he had taken off upon the floor, — in that 
noisy way which young men have before they learn in mar- 
riage how to behave themselves, was the silent comment of 
Mrs. Wilberforce, who heard him, as she made her prepara- 
tions for bed, next door. 

Dick was not so jolly as usual, in the hour of smoke and 
converse which ensued. It was the rector’s favorite hour, 
the moment for expansion, for confidences, for assurances on 
his part, to his young friends, that life in the company of a 
nice woman, and with your children growing up round you, 
was in reality a far better thing than your clubs and theatres, 
although a momentary regret might occasionally cross the 
mind, and a strong desire for just so many reasonable neigh- 
bors as might form a whist-party. Dick was in the habit of 
making fun of the rector’s self-congratulations and regrets, 
but on this evening he scarcely made a single joke. Three or 
four times he relapsed into that silence, meditative or other- 
wise, which is permitted and even enjoyable in the midst of 
smoke, when two men are confidential without .saying any- 
thing, and are the best of company without exchanging one 
idea. But in the midst of one of those pauses, he suddenly 
sat bolt upright in his chair, and said, “I am afraid I must 
leave you to-morrow,” taking away the rector’s breath. 

“ Leave us to-morrow! Why in the name of wonder should 
you leave us to-morrow?” Mr. Wilberforce cried. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


108 


“Well, the truth is,” said Dick, “you see I have been away 
from home a considerable time: and my people are going 
abroad: and then I’ve been remiss, you know, in my home 
duties.” 

“ But you knew all that, my dear fellow, yesterday as well 
as to-day.” 

“That’s true,” said Dick, with a laugh. “The fact is, 
that’s not all, Wilberforce. I have had letters.” 

“Letters I Has there been a delivery? Bless my soul,” 
said the rector, “ this is something quite new.” 

“Look here,” said Dick. “ I’ve been out, and I passed by 
the — the post-office, and there I got news — Come, don’t look at 
me in that doubtful way. I have got news, and there is an 
end of it — which makes me think I had better clear out of 
this.” 

“ If you want to make a mystery, Cavendish,” replied the 
rector, slowly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. 

“I don’t want to make any mystery,” cried Dick; then he 
added, “If I did, it would be, of course, because I could not 
help it. Sometimes a man is mixed up in a mystery which he 
can’t throw any light upon for — for other people’s sake.” 

“ Ah!” said Mr. Wilberforce. He refilled the pipe deliber- 
ately, and with a very grave face. Then, with a sudden llasli 
of illumination, “ I make no doubt,” he cried, “it’s sometliing 
about those tenants of your uncle’s. He is urging you to go 
to the Elms.” 

“Well, since you have guessed, that is about it,” said 
Cavendish. “I can’t carry out my commission, and as I’d 
rather not explain to him ” — 

“ Why shouldn’t you explain to him? I have quite been 
calculating th.at you would explain to him, and get him to 
take action, and free us of a set of people so much — so en- 
tirely,” cried the indignant rector, “out of our way!” 

“Well, you see,” said Dick, “it's not such an easy tiling 
to get people out of a house. I know enough about law to 
know that; and the old fellow would be in a terrible way if 
lie knew. I don’t want to worry him, don’t you see; so the 
best thing I can do is to say I left very soon, and had not the 
time to call.” 

“Well, for one thing, I am rather glad to hear you say so,” 
said the rector; “for I thought at first, by the way you intro- 
duced the subject, that your uncle himself, who has always 
borne such an excellent character, was somehow mixed up” — 


104 


A COUNTliY GJtJNTLL'MAN. 


Cavendish replied by a peal of laughter so violent as almost 
to look hysterical. He laughed till the tears ran down his 
cheeks. ‘‘Poor old uncle,” he cried, — “poor old fellow! 
After a long and blameless life to be suspected, and that by a 
clergyman ! ” 

“Cavendish,” said the rector severely, “you are too bad; 
you make fun of things the most sacred. It is entirely your 
fault if 1 ever associated in my mind for a moment — How- 
ever,” he added, “there is one thing certain : you can’t go 
away till you have dined at the Warren, according to Mrs. 
Warrender’s invitation. In her circumstances one must be 
doubly particular: and as she made an effort for Theo’s sake, 
and yours as his friend ” — 

“ Oh, she made an effort! I did not think of that.” 

“ If you are in such a hurry, Emily can lind out in the morn- 
ing whether to-morrow will suit them, and one day longer will 
not matter, surely. I can’t conceive why you should feel such 
an extreme delicacy about it.” 

“Oh, that’s my way,” said Dick lightly. “I am extremely 
delicate about everything, though you don’t seem to have 
found it out.” 

“ I wish you could be a little serious about something,” 
said the rector, with a sigh. “ Things are not all made to get 
a laugh out of, — though you seem to think so, Dick.” 

“It is as good a use as another,” said Dick. But as he 
went up stairs shortly after, the candle which he carried in his 
hand lighted up, in the midst of the darkness of the peaceful, 
sleeping house, a face which revealed anything rather than an 
inclination to get laughter out of everything. Nevertheless, 
he had pledged himself to stay for the dinner at the Warren 
which was to cost Mrs. Warrender an effort. It might cost 
him more +i>an an effort, he said to himself. 


XIV. 


“ One day is the same to us as another. We see nobody.” 

“Oh, of course!” said Mrs. Wilberforce. “’Dear Mrs. War- 
render, it is so noble of you to make such an effort. I hope 
Theo will appreciate it as it deserves.” 

Mrs. Warreiidej colored a little, as one is apt to do 'when con- 
demned by too much praise. It is difficult sometimes to tell 
which is worst, the too little or the too much: she did not 
make any reply. 

“ But I am glad it does not make any difference to have us 
to-night; that is, if you meant me to come ? — or perhaps it was 
only the two gentlemen *? I see now : to be sure, two gentlemen 
is no party; they need not even come back to the drawing-room 
at all. I am so glad I came to inquire, for now 1 understand 
perfectly. And you are sure it will cpite suit you to have them 
to-night ? ” 

“ Of course,” said Minnie, “ mamma does not look upon you 
as company, dear Mrs. Wilberforce; it will be only a relief if 
you come, for gentlemen, and especially new people, who don’t 
know what we have lost nor anything about us, are trying. 
Mr. Cavendish, I remember, was quite nice when we had tea in 
his rooms at Commemoration, and if all had been well — But 
I am sure mamma forms too high an estimate of her own pow- 
ers. What I am afraid of is that she will break down.” 

“To be sure, dear Minnie, if you are afraid of that” — said 
the rector’s wife: and so it was settled. Chatty took no part 
at all in the arrangements. She had not joined in her sister’s 
severe animadversions as to the dinner-party. For herself, she 
was glad of the change; it might be wrong, but she could not 
help being glad. It was, she acknowledged to herself, rather 
dull never to see any but the same faces day after day. And 
Mr. Cavendish was very nice; he had a cheerful face, and such 
a merry laugh. Chatty knew that it would not be I'iglit for 
lierself to laugh, in the circumstances, in her deep mourning: 
but it was a mild and surely innocent gratification to listen to 
the laugh of another. The Wilberforces were very great friends 
and very nice, but they always remembered what had happened. 


106 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


and toned themselves— these were the words Mrs. Wilberforce 
used — toned themselves to the subdued condition of the family. 
Chatty thought that, however nice (and most thoughtful) that 
might be, it was pleasant now and then to be in company with 
somebody who did not tone himself, but laughed freely when 
he had a mind to do so. And accordingly she kept very quiet, 
and took no part, but inclined silently to her mother’s side. 

This day was to Dick Cavendish like a bad dream. He could 
not move outside the inclosure of the rectory grounds without 
seeing before him in the distance the high garden wall, the 
higher range of windows, the big trees which gave its name to 
the Elms. Going through the village street, he saw twice — 
which seemed a superfluity of ill fortune— Lizzie Hampson, 
with her demure air, passing without lifting her eyes, as if she 
had never seen him before. Had any one else known what he 
alone knew, how extraordinary would his position liave ap- 
peared ! But he had no leisure to think of the strangeness of 
his position, all his faculties being required to keep himself go- 
ing, to look as if everything was as usual. The terror whioli 
was in his mind of perhaps, for anything lie could tell, meeting 
some one in these country roads, withoutVwaining, whose en- 
counter would be very different from that of Lizzie Hampson, 
by times got the better of his composure altogether. He did 
not know Avhat he would do or say in such an emergency. But 
he could do nothing to avoid it. The Willcrforces, anxious to 
amuse him, drove him over in the wagonette, in the morning, 
to Pierrepoint, making a little impromptu picnic among tlio 
ruins. Under no circumstances eould the party have been very 
exciting, except to the cliildren, who enjoyeil it hugely, witii 
the simple appetite for anything that is siqiposed to be pleas- 
ure which belongs to their age, — which pleased their parents 
quite as much as if Dick had been enthusiastic. They passed 
the Elms coming and going. Mrs. Wilberforce put her parasol 
Irctween her and that objectionable house, but all the same 
made a rapid inspection of it through the fringes. Dick turned 
his head away; but he, too, saw more than anyone could be 
supposed to see who was looking in the other direction, and at 
the same time, with an almost convulsion of laughter, which 
to himself was horrible, perceived the lady’s double play of 
curiosity and repugnance with a fierce amusement. He had to 
make some sort of poor jest, he did not know what, to account 
f(»r the laugh which tore him asunder, which he could not keep 
in. What the joke was he did not know, but it had an unmer- 


A COUSTUr GENTLEMAN. 


107 


ited success, and the carriage rattled along past the garden wall 
in a perfect riot of laughter from the fine lungs of the rector 
and Flo and Georgie, and all the little ones. If any one had 
but known! The tragedy was horrible, but the laughter was 
fresh and innocent on all lips but his own. Coming back he 
laughed no more. The gates were being opened; a sound oft 
horses’ hoofs and the jingle of their furniture was audible, f 
The inhabitants were about to drive out. “ If you look back^ 
you may catch a glimpse of — those people,” the rector whis- 
pered. But Dick did not look back. The danger made him 
pale. Had they met face to face, what would have happened ? 
Would he have sat there safe among the innocent children, and 
made no sign ? But when the evening came, and it was time 
for the dinner at the Warren, he had regained his composure, 
which, however, so far as his companions knew, had never been 
lost. In the Warren there were strong emotions, perhaps pas- 
sions, which he did not understand, but which gave him a sort 
of fellow feeling — conditions more sympathetic than tl e well- 
being of the rector and his wife. Nothing is more phasant to 
see than the calm happiness of a wedded pair, who suit each 
other, who have passed the youthful period of commotion, and 
have not reached that which so often comes when the children 
in their turn tempt the angry billows. But there is something 
in that self-satisfied and self-concentrated happiness which jars 
upon those who in the turmoil of existence have not much pros- 
pect of anything so peaceful. And then domestic comfort is 
often so sure that it is its own virtue which has purchased such 
an exemption from the ills of life. The Warren had been a 
few months ago a pattern of monotonous peacefulness. The 
impatience that sometimes lit up a little fire in Mrs. Warren- 
der’s eyes was so out of character, so improbable, that any one 
who suspected it supposed himself to have been deceived; for 
who could suppose the mother to be tired of her quiet life ? 
And the girls were not impatient; they lived their half-vegeta- 
ble life with the serenest and most complacent calm. Now, 
however, new emotions were at work. The young master of 
the house was full of abstraction and dreams, wrapped in some 
pursuit, some hope, some absorbing preoccupation of his 
own. His mother was straining at her bonds like a greyhound 
in a leash. Minnie, w ho had been the chief example of abso- 
lute self-satisfaction and certainty that everything was right, 
had developed a keenness of curiosity and censure which be- 
trayed her conviction that something had gone wrong. These 


103 


COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


three were all, as it were, on tiptoe, on the boundary line, the 
thinnest edge which divided the known from the unknown; 
conscious that at any moment something might happen which 
would disperse them and shatter all the remains of the old life. 
Chatty alone, amid these smouldering elements of change, sat 
calm in her accustomed place, as yet unawakened except to 
the mild pleasure of a new face among those to which she was 
accustuined, and of a cheerful voice and laugh which broke the 
monotony. She had not even gone so far as to say to herself 
that such a cheerful presence coming and going might make 
life more interesting. The new-comer, she was quite well 
aware, was going away to-morrow, nor was there any reason 
within her power of divination why he should not go; l)ut he 
was a pleasant break. Chatty reasoned with herself that 
though a love of novelty is a bad thing and quite unjustilialdo 
in a woman, still that when something new comes of itself 
across one’s point of vision, there is no harm in taking llie 
good of it. And accordingly she looked up with her face of 
pleasure, and smiled at the very sound of Dick’s cheerful voice, 
thinking how delightful it must be to be so cheerful as that. 
What a happy temperament! If Theo had been as cheeriul! 
But then to think of Theo as cheerful w’as beyond the powan- 
of mortal imagination. Thus they sat round the table lighted 
by a large lamp standing up tall in the midst, according to the 
fashion of the time. In those days the light was small, not be- 
cause of aesthetic principles, but because people had not as yet 
learned how to make more light, and the moderator lamp was 
the latest invention. 

“We took Mr. Cavendish to Pierrepoint, as you suggested,” 
said Mrs. Wilberforce. “We had a very nice drive, but the 
place is really infested by persons from Highcombe; the 
woman at tlie gate told us there had been a party of thirty peo- 
ple from the wovks the day before yesterday. Sir Edward will 
soon find the consequences if he goes on in that way. If every- 
body is allow^ed to go. not only will they ruin the place, but 
other people, people like ourselves, will give up going. He 
might as well make it a penny show.” 

“ It is a show without the penny,” oaid the rector. 

“ If the poor people did any harm; he would, no doubt, stop 
their coming,” said Mrs. Waireiidcr, mildly. 

“ Harm ! but of course they do harm. The very idea of 
thirty working-people, with their heavy boots, and their din- 
ner in a basket: and smoking, no doubt! ” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


109 


“ That is bad,” said Dick. “ Wilberforce and I did nothing 
of that kind. We only made experiments on the damp, and 
used a little tobacco to keep off the bad air. The air in the 
guard-room was close, and Georgie had a puff at a cigarette, 
but only with a sanitary view: and our dinner was in a hamper; 
these are distinctions. By the way, it was not dinnei- at all; it 
was only lunch.” 

“ And we, I hope, Mr. Cavendish, are very different 
from ” — 

“ Oh, veiy different. We have most things we wish to have, 
and live in nice houses, and have gardens of our own, and woods 
to walk in.” 

“That is quite true,” said Minnie; “we have always been 
Liberal,— not against the people, as the Conservatives are ; but 
still it cannot be good to teach them to be discontented with 
what they have. We should all be contented with what we’ve 
got. If it had not been the best for us, it would not have 
been chosen for us.” 

“ Perhaps we had better not go into the abstract question, 
Minnie. 1 suppose, Mr. Cavendish, you go back to Oxford 
after the vacation.” 

“ For hard work,” he said, with a laugh. “ I am such an old 
fellow I have no time to lose. I am not an honor man, like 
Warrender.” 

“ And you, Theo, — you are going, too ? ” said the rector. 

Warrender woke up as out of a dream. “ I have not made 
up my miiid. Perhaps I shall, perhaps not 7 it is not of much 
importance.” 

“ Not of much importance ! Your first class ” — 

“ I should not take a first class,” he said, coldly. 

“ But, my dear fellow!’^ The rector’s air of puzzled con- 
sternation, and the look he cast round him, as if to ask the 
world in general for the reason of this extraordinary self-sacri- 
fice, was so seriously comic that Dick’s gravity was in danger, 
especially as all the other members of the party replied to the 
look with a seriousness, in some cases disapproval, in some 
astonishment, which heightened the effect. 

“ Where does he expect to go to ? ” he asked, solemnly. 

“ Theo thinks,” said his mother, “ that a first class is not 
everything in the world as it is in the University.” 

“ But my dear Mrs. Warrender, that is precisely one of the 
things that ladies never understand.” 

“ 1 have no chance of one, so I agree with Warrender,” said 


no 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Dick. “ The Dons will bother, but what does that matter ? 
They have no souls beyond the Class lists.” 

“ This is all extremely unnecessary,’’ said Warrender, with 
an air of suppressed irritation. “ Perhaps you will allow me 
to know best. I have no more chance of a first class than you 
have, Cavendish. I have not worked for it, and 1 have no ex- 
pectation of it. All that was over long ago. I thought every 
one knew.” 

“ Every one knew that you could have whatever you chose, 
Warrender. Some thought it foolish, and some fine; but every 
one knew exactly the cause.” 

“Fine!” said the young master of the house, growing red. 
“ But it is of no consequence to me what they say. I may go 
back, or I may not^; it is not of the slightest importance to any 
one but myself.” *He added, in a tone which he tried to make 
lighter, “ What use is a class of any kind to a small country 
gentleman? To know the cost of cultivation and what pays is 
better than a dozen first. I want to find out how to cut my 
trees, and how to manage my farmers, and how not to make a 
fool of myself at petty sessions. Neither Plato nor Aristotle 
could throw any light on these subjects.” 

“For the last you must come to me,” said Dick; “on that 
point you’ll find me superior to all the sages put together. 
And as for drawing leases — but I suppose you have some beg- 
gar of a man of business who will take the bread out of a poor 
beginner’s mouth.” 

“ Though Mr. Cavendish talks in that way,” said Mrs. Wil- 
berforce aside to Minnie, “as though he wanted employment 
so much, he has a very nice little fortune of, his own. It is 
just his way of talking. And as for connection, there is no one 
better. His father is a cousin — it may be a good many times 
removed, but still it is quite traceable— of the Duke. I am 
not sure, even, that they are not in the peerage as collaterals; 
imieed, I am almost sure they are, and that we should find 
him there and everything about him, if we looked.” 

“ Of course everybody knows they are very well connected,” 
said Minnie, “but young men all talk nonsense. Listen to 
Theo! Why shouldn’t he go back to Oxford and take his de- 
gree, like other people? I don’t care about the class. A gen- 
tleman need not be particularly clever; but if he has been at 
the University and does not take his degree, it is always sup- 
posed that there is some reason. I don’t think it is respect- 
able, for my part.” 


A COUNTHY GENTLEMAN, 


111 


“ Ah, my dear, the young men of the present day — they are 
a law to themselves,” said her friend. “They don’t care for 
what is respectable. Indeed, so far as I can see, they make it 
a sort of reproach ; they let nobodies pick up the prizes. And 
what do they expect it is all to end in? I could tell them very 
well, if they would listen to me. The French llevolution is 
what it will end in; but of course they will not listen to any- 
thing one can say.” 

“Oh, you know we are Liberals,” cried Minnie; “we don’t 
go in with all that.” 

“ If you are going to town to-morrow, I don’t mind if I go 
with you,” said Warrender. “I have some business to look 
after. At least, it is not exactly business,” for he saw his 
mother’s eyes turned on him inquiringly; “it is a commission 
from a friend. I shall only stay the day, mother; you need 
not look so surprised.” 

“ It will do you good,” she said, quietly. “And why should 
you hurry back? You will be the better for the change.” 

lie gave her a suspicious, half-angry look, as if lie saw more 
in her words than met the eye. “ I shall be back in the even- 
ing,” he said. 

“ I will do all I can to upset his good resolutions, Mrs. War- 
render. He shall go to all sorts of riotous places, to keep me 
in countenance. If he can be beguiled into any little impro^ 
prieties, I am your man.” 

“Don’t be afraid,” said the rector. “Dick’s wickednesses 
are all theoretical. I’d trust Georgie in the worst haunt he 
knows.” 

Dick looked up with a laugh, with some light word of con- 
tradiction; and in a moment there gleamed before him, as by 
the touching of a spring, as by the opening of a door, the real 
state of the case so far as he was himself concerned. The 
present scene melted away to give place to another, — to others 
which were burnt upon his memory in lines of fire ; to one which 
he could see in his imagination, with which he had a horrible 
connection, which he could not dismiss out of his thoughts, 
though he was in reality a fugitive from it, flying the vicinity, the 
possible sight, the spectre of a ruin which was beyond descrip- 
tion. Merely to think of this amid an innocent company, 
around this decorous table, brought a sickening sensation, a 
giddiness both mental and physical. He turned his head away 
from the eyes of the mother, who lie felt must in her expe- 
rience divine something from the expression in his, to meet 


112 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


the pleased and guileless look with which Chatty was listening 
to that laughing disclaimer which he had just made. She was 
sitting by his side, saying nothing herself, listening to the 
talk, amused and almost excited by tlie new voice, the little 
play of light intercourse; even the charm of a new voice was 
something to Chatty. And she was so certain that what the 
rector had said was true, that Georgie, or even she herself, 
more delicate still, a simple-hearted young woman, might 
have been trusted in his worst haunt. He read her look with 
a keen pang of feelings contradictory, of sharp anguish and a 
kind of pleasure. For indeed it was true; and yet — and yet — 
Did they but know ! 

Warrender walked back with the party as far as the rectory 
gate. Indeed, so simple was the place, the entire family came 
out with them, straying along under the thick shade of the 
trees to the little gate. 

It was a lovely summer night, as different as possible from 
the haze and chill of the preceding one, with a little new moon 
just disappearing, and everything softened and whitened by 
her soft presence in the sky. Mrs. Wilberforce and Minnie 
went first, invisible in the dimness of the evening, then the 
two solid darknesses of the rector and Warrender. Dick came 
behind with Mrs. Warrender, and Chatty followed a step in 
the rear of all. The mother talked softly, but more frankly 
than she had done as yet. She told him that their home 
henceforward would probably be in Highcombe, not here, — 
“ That is, not yet, perhaps, but soon,” she said, with a little 
eagerness not like the melancholy tone with which anew-made 
widow talks of leaving her home, — and that it would please 
her to see him there, if, according to the common formula, 
“he ever came that way.” And Dick declared with a little 
fervor which was unnecessary that Highcombe was very much 
in his way, that it would be always a pleasure to come. Why 
should he have said it? He had no right to say it; for he 
knew, though he could not see, with once more that pang of 
mingled pleasure and misery, that there was a look of pleased 
satisfaction on Chatty’s face as she came softly in the dark- 
ness behind. 


XV. 


Dick wag astir very early next morning. He did his packing 
hurriedly, and strolled out in the freshness of the early day. 
But not to enjoy the morning sunshine. He walked along res- 
olutely towards the house which had suddenly acquired for 
him so painful an interest. For why? With no intention of 
visiting it; with a certainty that he would see no one there; 
perhaps with an idea of justifying himself to himself for flying 
from its neighborhood, for putting distance, at least the 
breadth of the island, between him and that place, which he 
could not henceforward get out of his mind. To think that he 
had come here so lightly two days ago with his old uncle’s 
commission, and that now no inducement in the world, except 
death or hopeless necessity, could make him cross that thresli- 
old. If the woman were on her death-bed, yes; if she were 
abandoned by all and without other help, as well might be, as 
would be, without doubt, one time or another. But for noth- 
ing else, nothing less. He walked along under the wall, and 
round the dark shrubberies behind, which enveloped the 
house. All was quiet and peace for the moment, at least; the 
curtains drawn over the windows; the household late of stirr- 
ing; no lively liousewife there to rouse maids and men, aihl 
stir up a wholesome sound of living. The young man’s cheer- 
ful face was stern as he made this round, like a sentinel, think- 
ing of many things that were deep in the gulf of the past; two 
years of his life which looked like a life-time, and which were 
over, with all the horrors that were in them, and, done with, 
and never to be recalled again. He was still young, and yet 
how much older than any one was aware! Twenty-seven, yet 
with two lives behind him : one that of youth, to which he had 
endeavored to piece his renewed existence; and the other all 
complete and ended, a tragedy, yet like many tragedies in 
life, cut off not by death. Not by death: for here were both 
the actors again within reach of each other, — one within 
the sleeping house, one outside in the fresh air of the morning, 
— with a gulf like that between Dives and Lazarus, a gulf 
which no man might cross, of disgust and loathing, of pain 
and hatred, between. 

8 


114 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


The door in the wall opened stealthily, softly, and some one 
came out. It was so early that such precautions seemed scarcely 
necessary. Perhaps it was in fear of this encounter whicli was 
actually taking place that Lizzie looked round so jealously. 
If so, her precautions were useless, as she stepped out imme- 
diately in front of the passenger whom she most desired to avoid. 
He did not speak to her for a moment, but walked on, quicken- 
ing his pace as hers fluttered into a run, as if to escape him. 
“ Stop,” he said at length. “ You need not take the'trouble to 
conceal yourself from me.” 

“ I’m not concealing — anything,” said Lizzie, half angry, half 
sullen, with a flush on her face. I’ve done nothing wrong,” 
she added, quickly. 

“ I don’t say you’ve done anything wrong; for what I "’an 
tell, you may be doing the work of an angel.” 

She looked up at him eagerly, and the tears sprang to her 
eyes. “ I don’t know for that — I — I don’t ask nothing but not 
to be blamed.” 

“ Lizzie,” he said, “you were always a good girl, and to be 
faithful as you seem may, for anything I know, be angels’ work. 
I could not do it for my part.” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, hurriedly. “ It would not be looked for 
from you, — oh, no, no! ” 

“ But think, if you were to ruin yourself,” he said. “ The 
rector saw you, the other day, but he will say nothing. Yet 
think if others saw you.” 

“ Sir,” cried Lizzie drawing back, “ it will do me more harm 
and vex granny more to see a gentleman walking by my side 
and talking like that, as if he took an interest in me, — which 
you don’t, all the same,” she added, with a little bitterness, 
“ only for — others.” 

“ I do,” he cried, “ if I could I'c’" you without harming you. 
But it is chiefly for the other. 1 want you to act for me, Liz- 
zie. If trouble should come, as come, of course, it will” — 

“ I am none so sure. You never saw her half so pretty — and 
he”- 

“ Silence!” cried Dick, with a voice that was like the report 
of deep guns. “If trouble comes let me know. She must not 
want or be miserable. There is my address. Do not apply to 
me unless there is absolute need; but if that happens, write, 
telegraph, — no matter which; help shall come.” 

“ And what am I to do with a gentleman’s card ? ” said Liz- 
zie. “Granny or some one will be sure to see it. It will 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


115 


drop out of my pocket, or it will be seen in my drawers, or 
something. And if I were to die it would be found, and folks 
would think badly of me. I will not take your card.” 

“ This is folly, Lizzie.” 

“ If it is, folly’s natural. I don’t believe there will be any 
need; but if there is. I’ll find you out, if it’s wanted, but I 
won’t take the card. Will you please, sir, to walk on ? I’ve got 
my character to think of.” 

The girl stopped short, leaning against the corner of the 
wall, defying him, though she was not hostile to him. He put 
back his card in his pocket, and took off his hat, a token 
of respect which brought the color to Lizzie’s cheek. 

“Go away, sir; I’ve got my character to think of,” she said. 
Then she curtsied deeply, with a certain dignity in her rustic 
manners. “ Thank you,” she said, “ all the same.” 

Dick walked into the rector’s dining-room with little Georgie 
seated on his shoulder. “Fancy where we found him, 
mamma!” said Flo. “Buying barley sugar from old Mrs. 
Bagley at the shop. What does a gentleman want with barley 
sugar ? He is too old. You never eat it nor papa.” 

“He give it all to me,” said Georgie, “and Fluffy had some. 
Fluffy and me, wu are very fond of Mr. Cavendish. Don’t go 
away, Mr. Cavendish, or come back to-morrow.”. 

“ Yes, turn back to-morrow,” cried the other little ones. Flo 
was old enough to know that the future had vistas deeper than 
to-morrow. She said, “Don’t be so silly, all you little things. 
If he was coming back to-morrow, why should he go to-day ? 
He will come back another time.” 

“When dere’s need ob him,” said his little godson gravely; 
at which there was much laughing. But for his part Dick did 
not laugh. He hid his serious countenance behind little Dick’s 
curly head, and thus nobody knew that there was not upon it 
even a smile. 

At Underwood, which is a very small village, there is no 
station; so that Dick had to be driven over in the wagonette, 
the rector making this an occasion to give the children and the 
governess a drive, which left the two gentlemen no opportunity 
to say much to each other. They had a moment for a last 
word solely at the door of the railway carriage, in which War- 
render had already taken his place. The rector sAid, hesitat- 
ing, “ And you won’t forget ? Tell Mr. Cornwall if he refuses 
to do anything, so as to drive these people away, it will be the 
kindest thing he can do for the parish. Tell him ” — But here 


116 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


the guard interposed to examine the tickets, and tliere was a 
slamming of doors and a shriek of whistles, and the train glided 
away. 

‘‘ 1 think I understand what Wilberforce means,” said War- 
render. “He is speaking of that house. Oh, you need not 
smile; nothing could be more entirely out of my way.” 

“1 did not smile,” said Dick, who was as grave as all the 
judges in a row. 

“ Perhaps you have not heard about it. It was there Mark- 
land spent the last afternoon before his accident, almost the 
last day of his life. It gives her a bitter sort of association with 
the place.” 

“Markland?” said Dick. “ Oh, yes, I remember. Lord 
Markland, who — He died, didn’t he ? It may not be a satis- 
factory household, but still he may have gone there without 
any liarm.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose there was any harm; except the love 
of bad company; that seems a fascination which some men 
cannot resist. I don’t care two straws myself whether there 
was harm or not; but it is a bitter sort of recollection for 
/ier.” 

“ They were both quite young, were they not ? ” 

“ Markland was over thirty,” said the young man, who was 
but twenty-two; “ and she is — oh, she is, I suppose, about my 
age.” 

He knew, indeed, exactly what was her age; but what did 
that matter to a stranger ? She was superior to him in that 
as in all other things. 

“ I have heard they were not very happy,” Dick said. He 
cared no more for the Marklands than he did for the domestic 
concerns of the guard who had looked at his ticket two minutes 
ago; but anything answered for conversation, which in the 
present state of his mind he could not exert himself to make 
brilliant. 

“Oh, happy!” cried Warrender. “How could they be 
happy ? She a woman with the finest perceptions, and a mind 
—such as you seldom find in a woman; and he the sort of per- 
son who could take his pleasure in the conversation that goes 
on in a liouse like tliat.” 

Dick did not say anything for some time; he felt as though 
all the people he met were under some horrible compulsion to 
talk on this subject in absolute unconsciousness, giving him 
blow after blow. “ I don’t mean to take up the cudgels for 


A COUNmr GENTLEMAN. 


117 


that sort of people,” he said at last; “ but they are— not always 
stupid, you know.” To this protest, however, his companion 
gave no heed. 

“ She was no more than a child when she was married,” said 
Warreiider, with excitement, “ a little girl out of the nursery. 
How was she to know ? She had never seen anybody, and to 
expect her to be able to judge at sixteen ” — 

“ That is always bad,” said Dick, musing. He was like the 
other, full of his own thoughts. “ Yet some girls are very 
much developed at sixteen. I knew a fellow once who— And 
she went entirely to the bad.” 

“What are you talking of?” cried Warrender, almost 
roughly. “ She was like a little angel herself, and knew noth- 
ing different; and when that fellow— who had been a hand- 
some fellow they say— fell in love with her, and would not 
leave her alone for a moment, I, for one, forgive her for being 
deceived. I admire her for it,” he went on. “ She was as iit 
nocent as a flower. Was it possible she could suspect what 
sort of a man he was? It has given her such a blow in her ideal 
that I doubt if she will ever recover. It seems as if she could 
not believe again in genuine, unselfish love.” 

“ Perhaps it is too early to talk to her about such subjects.” 
“Too early! Do you think I talk to her about such sub- 
jects ? Put one cannot talk of the greatest subjects as we do 
without touching on them. Lady Markland is very fond of 
conversation. She lets me talk to her, which is great conde- 
scension, for she is— much more thoughtful, has far more in- 
sight and mental power, than I.” 

“ And more experience,” said Dick. 

“What do you mean? Well, yes, no doubt her marriage 
has given her a sort of dolorous experience. She is acquainted 
with actual life. When it so happens that in the course of 
conversation we touch on such subjects I find she always leans 
to the darker side.” He paused for a moment, adding ab- 
ruptly, “ And then there is her boy.” 

“ Oh,” said Dick, “ has she a boy ?” 

“ That’s what I’m going to town about. She is very anxious 
for a tutor for this boy. My opinion is that he is a great deal 
too much for her. And who can tell what he may turn out ? 
She has been brought to see that he wants a man to look after 
him.” 

“ She should send him to school. With a child who has been 
a pet at home, that is the best way.” 


118 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Did I say he had been a pet at home ? She is a great deal 
too wise for that. Still, the boy is too much for her; and if I 
could hear of a tutor — Cavendish, you are just the sort of 
fellow to know. I have not told her what I am going to do, 
but I think if I find some one who would answer, I have influ- 
ence enough”— Warrender said this with a sudden glow of 
color to his face, and a conscious glance; a glance which dared 
the other to form any conclusions from what he said, yet in a 
moment avowed and justified them. Dick was very full of his 
own thoughts, and yet at sight of this he could not help but 
smile. His heart was touched by the sight of the young pas- 
sion, which had no intention of disclosing itself, yet could 
think of nothing and talk of nothing but the person beloved. 

“ I don’t know how you feel about it, Warrender,” he said, 
“ but if I had a — friend whom I prized so much, I should not 
introduce another fellow to be near her constantly, and proba- 
bly to — win her confidence, you know; for a lady in these cir- 
cumstances must stand greatly in need of some one to— to con- 
sult with, and to take little things off her hands, and save her 
trouble, and — and all that.” 

“ That is just what I am trying to do,” said Warrender. 
“ As for her grief, you know,— which isn’t so much grief as a 
dreadful shock to her nerves, and the constitution of her mind, 
and many things we needn’t mention,— as for that, no one can 
meddle. But just to make her feel that there is some one to 
whom nothing is a trouble, who will go anywhere, or do any- 
thing ” — 

“ Well, that’s what the tutor will get into doing, if you don’t 
mind. I’ll tell you, Warrender, what I would do if I were you. 
I’d be the tutor myself.” 

“ I am glad I spoke to you,” said the young man. “ It is 
very pleasant to meet with a mind that is sympathetic. You 
perceive what I mean. I must think it all over. I do not know 
if I can do what you say, but if it could be managed, certainly— 
Anyhow, I am very much obliged to you for the advice.” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” said Dick; “but I think I can enter 
into your feelings.” 

“And so few do,” said Warrender; “either it is made Ihc 
subject of injurious remarks,— remarks which, if they came to 
her ears, would — or a succession of feeble jokes more odious 
still, or suggestions that it would be better for me to look 
after my own business. I am not neglecting my own business 
that I am aware of; a few trees to cut down, a few farms to 


A COUNTEY GENTLEMAN. 


119 


look after, are not so important. I hope now,” he added, 

“ you are no longer astonished that the small interests of the 
University don’t tell for very much in comparison.” 

“ I beg you a thousand pardons, Warrender. I had for- 
gotten all about the University.” 

“ It does not matter,” he said, waving his hand; “it does 
not make the least difference to me. It would not change my 
determination in any way, whatever might depend upon it; 
and nothing really depends upon it. I can’t tell you how much 
obliged I am to you for your sympathy, Cavendish.” He 
added, after a moment, “ It is doubly good of you to enter into 
my difficulties, everything being so easy-going in your own 
life.” 

Cavendish looked at his companion with eyes that twinkled 
with a sort of tragic laughter. It was natural for the young 
one to feel himself in a grand and unique position, as a very 
young man seized by a grande passion is so apt to do; but 
Theo’s fine superiority and conviction that he was not as other 
men gave a grim amusement to the man who was so easy-going, 
whose life was all plain sailing in the other’s sight. “ All the 
more reason,” he said, with a laugh, “ being safe myself, that 
I should take an interest in you.” He laughed again, so that 
for the moment Warrender, with momentary rage, believed 
himself the object of his friend’s derision. But a glance at 
Cavendish dispelled this fear. Presently each retired into 
his corner, where they sat opposite to each other saying noth- 
ing, while the long levels of the green country flew past them, 
and the clang of the gong swept every other sound away. 
They were alone in their compartment, each buried in his 
thoughts: the one in all the absorption of a sudden and over- 
whelming passion, not without a certan pride in it and in him- 
self, although consciously thinking of nothing but of J)er, go- 
ing over and over their last interviews, and forming visions to 
himself of the next; while the other, he who was so easy-going, 
the cheerful companion, unexpectedly found to be so sympa- 
thetic, but otherwise somewhat compassionately regarded as 
superficial and commonplace by the youth newly plunged into 
life,— the other went back into those recollections which were 
his,’ which had been confided to none, which he had thought 
laid to rest and half forgotten, but which had suddenly surged 
up again with so extraordinary a rivival of pain. The presence 
of Warrender opposite to him, and the unconsci( us revelation-^ 
he had made of the condition of his own mind mid thoughts. 


120 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


had transported Dick back again for a moment into what 
seemed an age, a century past,— the time when he had been as 
his friend was, in the ecstasy of a youthful passion. He re- 
membered that; tnen with quick scorn and disdain turned 
from the thought, and plunged into the deep abysses of possi- 
bility which he now saw opening at his feet. He had said to 
himself that the past was altogether past, and that he could 
begin in his own country, far from the associations of his brief 
and unhappy meddling with fate, a new existence, one natural 
to him, among his own people, in the occupations he under- 
stood. He had not understood either himself or life in that 
strange, extravagant essay at living which he had made and 
ended, as he had thought, and of which nobody knew anything. 
How could he tell, he asked himself now, how much or how 
little was known ? Was anything ever ended until death had 
put the finis to mortal history ? 

These young men were two excellent examples of the well- 
born and well-bred young Englishman, admirably dressed, 
with that indifference to and ease in their well-fitting gar- 
ments, that satisfied and careful simplicity, which only the 
Anglo-Saxon seems able to attain to in such apparel; Warren- 
der, indeed, with something of that dreamy look about the 
eyes which betrays the abstraction of the mind in a realm of 
imagination, but nothing besides which could have suggested 
to any spectator the presence of either mystery in the past or 
danger in the future, beyond the dangers of flood or field. 
They w^ere both above the reach of need, ye.t both with that 
wholesome necessity for doing wdiich is in English blood, and 
all the world before them, public duty and private happiness, 
the inheritance of the class to which they belonged. Yet to 
one care had come in the guise of passion ; and the other was 
setting out upon a second beginning, no one knew how 
heavily laden and handicapped in the struggle of life. 


XVI. 


By this time London was on the eve of its periodical moment 
of desertion: the fashionable people all gone or going; legis- 
lators weary and worn, blaspheming the hot, late July days, 
and everything grown shabby with dust and sunshine; the 
.■',rees and the grass in the parks no longer green, but brown; 
the flowers in the balconies overgrown; the atmosphere all 
used up and exhausted; and the great town, on the eve of 
holiday, grown impatient of itself. Although the world of 
fashion is but so small a part of the myriads of London, it is 
astonishing how its liabits affect the general living, and how 
many, diversely and afar off, form a certain law to themselves 
of its dictates, though untouched by its tide. 

Warrender had never known anything about London. His 
habits were entirely distinct from those of the young men, 
high and low, who find their paradise in its haunts and 
crowds. When he left Cavendish, on their arrival, — not with- 
out a suggestion on Dick’s part of after meeting, which the 
other did not accept, for no reason but because in his present 
condition it was pleasanter to him to be alone, — Warrender, 
who did not know where to go, or what to do in order to 
carry out the commission which he had so vaguely taken upon 
him, walked vaguely along, carrying about him the same mist 
of dreams which made other scenes dim. Where was he to 
find a tutor in the streets of London? He turned to the Park 
by habit, as that was the direction in which, half mechanic- 
ally, he was in the habit of finding himself when he went to 
town. But ‘he was still less likely to find a tutor for Lady 
Markland’s boy in the lessened ranks of the loungers in 
Kotten Bow than he was in the streets. He walked among 
them with his head in the clouds, thinking of what she had 
said Avhen last he saw her; inciuiring into every word she had 
uttered; finding out, with a sudden Hash of delight, a new 
meaning which might perchance lurk in a phrase of hers, and 
which could be construed into the intoxicating belief that she 
had thought of him in his absence. This was far more inter- 
esting than any of the vague processional effects that glided 


122 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


half seen before his eyes; tlie streams of people, with no 
apparent meaning in them, who were going and coming, 
flowing this way and the other, on their commoniflace busi- 
ness. The phantasmagoria of moving forms and faces went 
past and past, as he thought, altogether insignificant, mean- 
ing nothing. She had said, “ 1 wondered if you remarked ” — 
something that had happened when they were apart from 
each other; a sunset it was, now he remembered, of wonder- 
ful splendor, which she had spoken of next day. “ I wondered 
if you remarked:” not “ I wonder,” which would have meant 
that at that moment she was in the act of wondering, but I 
wondered, in the past tense; as if, when the glorious crimsons 
and purples struck her imagination, and gave her that high 
delight which nature always gives to the lofty mind (the 
adjectives too were his, poor boy), she had thought of him, 
perhaps, as the one of all her friends who w’as most likely to 
feel as she was feeling. Poor AVarrender w'as conscious, with 
bitter shame and indignation against himself, that at that 
moment he was buried in his father’s gloomy library, in the 
shadow of those trees wdiich he had no longer leisure to think 
of cutting, and w’as not so much as aw^are that there was a 
sunset; and this he had been obliged to confess, with pas- 
sionate regret (since she had seen it, and given it thus an 
interest beyond sunsettings), but with tempestuous sudden 
joy and misery. In the middle of Rotten Row! with still so 
many pretty creatures on so many fine horses cantering past, 
and even, w^hat was more wonderful, Bronson, that inevitable 
competitor, the substance of solid success to AVarrender’s 
romance of shadow^y glory, walking along with his arm in tliat 
of another scholar, and pointing to the man of dreams who 
saw them not. “ He is working out that passage in the 
Politics that your tutor makes such a potter about,” said the 
other. “ Not a bit of it,” cried Bronson, “ for that would 
pay!” But they gave him credit, at all events, for some 
classic theme, and not for the discoveries he was making in 
that other subject, which is not classic, though universal; 
whereas the only text that entered into his 'dreams w^as that 
past tense, opening up so many vistas of thought which he 
had not realized before. AA^as there ever a broken sentence of 
Aristotle that moved so much the scholar to whom a new 
reading has suddenly appeared? There is no limiting that 
pow'er of human emotion wdiich • can flow^ in almost any 
channel, but enthusiastic indeed must bo the sisn of learning 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


123 


in whose bosom the difference of the past and the present 
would raise so great a ferment. “ I wondered if you re- 
marked.” It lit up heaven and earth with new lights to War- 
render. He wanted nothing more to raise his musings into 
ecstasy. He pictured her standing looking out upon the 
changing sky, feeling perhaps a loneliness about her, wanting 
to say her word, but with no one near whose ear was lit to 
receive it. “I wondered and he all the while unconscious, 
like a dolt, like a clod, with his dim windows already full of 
twilight, his heavy old trees hanging over him, his back 
turned, even could it have penetrated through dead walls and 
heavy shade, to the glow in the west! While he thought of it 
his countenance, too, glowed with shame. He said to himself 
that never, should he live a hundred years, would he again bo 
thus insensible to that great and splendid ceremonial which 
ends the day. For that moment she had wanted him, she had 
need of him ; and not even in spirit had he been at hand, as 
her knight and servant ought to be. 

And all this, as we have said, in the middle of Eotten Row! 
He remembered the spot afterwards, the very place where 
that revelation had been made to him, but never was aware 
that he had met Bronson, who was passing through London 
on his way to join a reading party, and was in the mean time, 
in passing, making use of all the diversions that came in his 
way, in the end of the season, as so reasonable and practical a 
person naturally would do. 

Warrender went long and far in the strength of this marvel- 
ous supply of spiritual food, and wanted no other; but at last, 
a long time after, when it was nearly time to go back to his 
train, bethought himself that it would be better to lunch 
somewhere, for the sake of the questions which would cer- 
tainly be put to him when he got home. In .^the mean time he 
had occupied himself by looking out and buying certain new 
books, which he had either heard her inquire about or thought 
she would like to see; and had remembered one or two triiles 
she had mentioned which she wanted from town, and even 
laid in a stock of amusements for little Geoff, — boys’ books, 
suited rather to his years than to his precocity. About the 
other and more serious part of his self-constituted mission 
Warrender, however, had done nothing. He had passed one 
of those “Scholastic Agencies,” which it had been his (vague) 
intention to inquire at, had paused and passed it by. There 
was truth, he reflected, in what Cavendish said. How could 


124 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


he tell who might be recommended to him as tutor to Geoff ? 
Perhaps some man who would be his own superior, to whom 
she might talk of the sunset or even of other matters, wdio 
might worm his way into the place which had already begun 
to become Warrender’s place, — that of referee and executor of 
the troublesome trifles, adviser at least in small affairs. He 
began to reflect then that in all probability a tutor in the house 
M'ould be a trouble and embarrassment to Lady Markland: 
one who could come for a few hours every day (and was there 
notone who would be too liaj^py of the excuse to wait upon his 
mistress daily?); one who could engage Geoff with work to 
be done, so that the mother might be free; one, indeed, who 
would thus supplant the offices already held, and become in- 
dispensable where now' he was only precariously necessary, 
capable of being superseded. It is very possible that in any 
case, even had he not asked the valuable advice of Dick Caven- 
dish, his journey to London would have come to nothing; for 
he was in the condition to which a practical proceeding of such 
a kind is inharmonious, and in which all action is somewhat 
against the grain. But with the support of Dick’s advice his 
reluctance was justified to himself, and he returned to Under- 
wood with a consciousness of liaving given up his first plan 
for a better one, and of having found by much thought an ex- 
pedient calculated to answer all needs. 

Meanwhile he carried with him everywhere the delight of 
that discovery whicli he had made. To say over the words 
was enough, — I wondered if you remarked. Had Cavendish 
been with him on the return journey, or had any stranger 
addressed him on the way, this was the phrase which he would 
have used in reply. He watched the sunset eagerly as he 
walked home from the station, laden with his parcel of books. 
It was not this tiine a remarkable sunset. It was even a little 
pale, as if it might possibly rain to-morrow; but still he 
watched it, v,fitli an eye to all the changes of color. Perhaps 
nature had not hitherto called him with a very strong voice: 
but there came a great many scraps of poetry floating into his 
head which might have given an interest to sunsets even before 
Lady Markland. There was a word or two ftbout that verv 
golden greenness which was before his eyes, “ beginning to 
fade in the light he loves on a bed of daffodil sky.” He iden- 
tified that and all the rims of color that marked the shining 
liorizon. Perhaps she would ask him if he had remarked, and 
he would be able to rep]3^ 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


VN) 

‘ Books?'* cried Minnie, — “are all those books? Don’t 
you know we have a great many books already, more than we 
have shelves for? The library is quite full, and even the little 
bookcase in the drawing-room. You should get rid of some of 
the old ones it you bring in so many new.” 

“And whom did you see in town, Theo?”«aid his mother. 
He had no club, being so young and so little accustomed to 
I^ondon; but yet a young man brought up as he had been can 
scarcely fail to have many friends. 

“ Most people seem to have gone away,” he said. “ I saw 
nobody. Yes, there were people riding in the Eow, and people 
walking, too, I suppose, but nobody I knew.” 

“ And did you so up all that way only to buy books ? You 
might have written to the bookseller for them, and saved your 
fare.” 

Theo made his sister no reply, but when Chatty asked, 
rather shyly, if he had seen much of Mr. Cavendish, he an- 
swered Avarmly that Cavendish was a very good fellow; that 
he took the greatest interest in his friends’ concerns, and was 
always ready to do anything he could for you. “Iliad no 
idea what a man he was,” he said, with fervor. Mrs. Warren- 
der looked up at this, with a little anxiety, for according to 
the ordinary rules which govern the reasoning of women she 
was led from it to the induction, not immediately visible to the 
unconcerned spectator, that her son had got into some scrape, 
and had found it necessary to have recourse to his friend’s 
advice. Theo in a scrape! It seemed impossible: but yet 
there are few women who are not prepared for something of 
this character happening even to the best of men. 

“I hope,” she said, “that he is a prudent adviser, Theo; 
but he is still quite a yoUng man.” 

“ Not so young; he must be six or seven and twenty,” said 
the young man; and then he paused, remembering tlmt this 
was the perfect age, — the age which she had attained, which 
he had described to Cavendish as “about my own,”— and he 
blushed a little and contradicted himself. “ Yes, to be sure, 
he is young: but that makes him only the more sympathetic; 
and it was not his advice I was thinking of so much as his 
sympathy. He is full of sympathy.” 

“ You have us to sympathize with you,” said Minnie. “ I 
don’t know what you want from strangers. We ought to 
stand by each other, and not care what outsiders say.” 

“ I hope Theo will never despise the sympathy of his own 


120 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


l>eoplc, but — a friend of one’s own choosing is a great help,” 
said Mrs. Warrender. Yet she was uneasy. She did not think 
young Cavendish’s sympathy could be on account of Theo’s 
late bereavement, and what trouble could the boy have that 
he confided to Cavendish, and did not mention to his mother ? 
She became more and more convinced that there must be some 
scrape, or at least that something had gone wrong. But save 
in these speeches about Cavendish there was no proof of any- 
thing of the kind. He gave no further exj^lanation, however, 
of the business which had taken him to town, unless the fact 
that he drove over to Markland next morning, with the half of 
the pile of books which he had brought from town, in his dog- 
cart, should afford an explanation ; and that was so vague that 
it was h?rd to say what it did or did not prove. 

He went over to Markland with his books, but left them in 
the dog-cart; shy, when he was actually in her presence, of 
carrying her that bribe. Books w’ere a bribe to her; she had 
been out of the way of gratifications of this kind, and too sol- 
itary and forsaken during the latter part of her married life to 
know what was going on and to supply herself. She w'as sit- 
ting with Geoff upon the terrace, which ran along one side of 
the house, when Warrender appeared, and both teacher and 
pupil received him with something that looked very like re- 
lief; for the day was warm, and the terrace w^as but ill chosen 
as a school-room. The infinite charm of a summer day, the 
thousand invitations to idleness with which the air is full, the 
waving trees (though there were not many of them), the scent 
of the flowers, the singing of the birds, all distracted Geoff’s 
attention, and, sooth to say, his mother’s, too. She would 
have been glad to sit quiet, to escape the boy’s questioning, to 
put aAvay the irksome lessons which she herself did not much 
more than understand, and to which she brought a mind unac- 
customed and full of other thoughts. Of these other thoughts 
there were so many, both of the future and the past, that it 
was very hard to keep her attention to the little boy’s Latin 
grammar. Geoff on his side was weary, too; he should have 
been in a school- room, shut out from temptations, with maps 
hung along the walls, instead of waving trees, and where he 
could not have stopped to cry out, in the midst of his exercises, 
“ I say, mamma, there’s a squirrel. I am certain it is a squir- 
rel.” That, of course, was very bad. And then up to a recent 
period he had shared all, or almost all, his mother’s thoughts; 
but since his father’s death these had become so full of com- 


A COUNTRY GENTLENAN. 


m 


plications that a child could no lon(?er share them, though 
neither (juite understood the partial severance which had en- 
sued. Both were relieved, however, when the old butler ap- 
peared at the end of the terrace, pointing out to Warrender 
where the little group was. The man did not think it neces- 
sary to expose himself to the full blaze of the sunshine in 
order to lead “a great friend” like Mr. Warrender close up to 
my lady’s chair. 

“We are very glad to see you; in fact, we are much too glad 
to see you,” said Lady Markland, with a smile. “ We are 
ashamed to say that we were not entering into our work as wo 
ought. Nature is always so busy doing a hundred things, and 
calling us to come and look what she is about. We take more 
interest in her occupations than in our own.” 

“ Mamma makes a story of everything,” said Geoff, half ag- 
grieved; “but I’m in earnest. Grammar is dreadful stuff; 
there is no reflection in it. Wliy can t one begin to read books 
straight off, without nasty, stupid rules?” 

Warrender took little note of what the boy said. Meanwhile 
he had shaken hands and made his salutations, and the sov- 
ereign lady, with a smile, had given him a chair. He felt him- 
self entering, out of the blank world outside, into the sphere 
of her existence, which was his Vita Nuova, and was capable 
for the mojnent of no other thought. 

“ I think,” said Lady Markland,— “ for we have really been 
at it conscientiously for a long time and doing our best,— I 
think, Geoff, we may shut up our books for to-day. You 
know there will be your lessons to prepare to-night.” 

“ I’ll go and look at Theo’s horse. Have you got that big 
black one? I shall be back in a moment, mamma.” 

“ If you look into the cart you will fuicT some books, Geoff; 
some that perhaps you may like.” ^ 

“Oh, good!” said the boy, with his elfish little countenance 
lighting up. He was very slight and small for his age, a little 
shadow darting across the sunshine. The half of tlie terrace , 
lay in a blaze of light, but all was cool and fresh in the corner 
where Lady Markland’ s light chairs and table were placed in 
the angle of the balustrade, there half hidden by a luxuriant 
climbing rose. Above Lady Markland’.s head rose a cluster of 
delicate golden roses, tinged in their hearts with faint red, in 
all the wealth of their second bloom. Her black dress, pro- 
found black, without any relief, was the only dark point in the 
scene. A little faint color of recovering health, and perhaps 
of brightening life, had come to her face. She- was very tran- 
quil, lasting as people rest after a long illness, in a sort of con- 
valescence of the heart. 

“You must forgive his familiarity, Mr. Warrender; you are 
so good to him, and at his age one is so apt to presume on 
till ^ ^ 

Warrender had no inclination to waste the few minutes in 
which he had her all to himself in any discussion of Geoff. He 


128 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


said hastily, “ I have brought some other books to be looked at, 
—things which people are talking of. I don’t know if you will 
care for them, but there is a little novelty in them at least. I 

was in town yesterday ^ , a < i i • 

“ You are very good to me, too, she said. A new book is 
a wonderful treat. I thought you must be occupied, or absent, 
that we did not see you here.” ■ 

Ao-ain that past tense, that indication that in his absence— 
WaiTender felt his head grow giddy with too much delight. 

“ I was afraid to come too often, lest you should think me— 
importunate.” 

“ How so? ” she said, simply. “ \ ou have been like a young 
brother ever since— How could I think you other than kind? 
The only thing is that you do too much for me. I ought to be 
trying to walk alone.” 

“Why, while I am here?” cried the young man; “asking 
nothing better, nothing half so good, as to be allowed to do 
what I can,— which, after all, is nothing.” 

lyiie gave a slight glance at him under her eyelids, with a 
faint dawning of surprise at the fervor of his tone. “The 
world which people say is so hard is really very kind,” she 
said. “I never knew till now how kind: at least when one 
has a great evident claim upon its sympathy,— or pity, should 
I say? Those who find it otherwise are perhaps those whose 
troubles cannot be made public, and yet who expect their 
fellow creatures to divine ” — 

Warrender was sadly cast down to be considered only as the 
world, a type, so to speak, of mankind in general, kind to 
those whose claims were undeniable. He replied with a swell- 
ing heart, “There must always be individuals who divine, 
though perhaps they may not dare to show their sympathy,— 
ah, don’t say pity. Lady Marklandl” 

♦ “You humor me,” she said, “because you know I love to 
talk. But pity is very sweet; there is a balm in it to those 
who are wounded.” 

“ Sympathy is better. 

“ ‘ Migrhty love would Cleave in twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it giving half to him.’ " 

“Ah,” she cried, with a glimmer in her eyes, “if you go to 
the poets, Mr. Warrender! And that is more than symi)athy. 
What did he call it himself? ‘ Such a friendship as had niaV 
tered time.’ ” 

“Mamma, mamma, look here !” came in advance of his ap- 
pearance the voice of Geoff. He came panting, hying round 
the other angle of the terrace, with his arms full of books. 
And here, as if it were a type of all that was coming, tlu; 
higher intercourse, the exchange of thought, the promotion of 
the man over the child, came suddenly to ,an end. 


XVII. 


Lady Markland had recovered in a great degree from the 
shock of her husband’s death. It had been, as Mrs. Warreiider 
said, a shock rather than a sorrow. There is no such reconciler of 
those who have been severed, no such softener of the wounds which 
people closely connected in life often give one another, as deatlu 
A long illness ending so has often the effect of blotting out alto- 
gether the wrongs and bitternesses of many troubled yeai-s. The 
unkind husband becomes once more a hero, the child who has stung 
its parents to the quick a young and tender saint, by that blessed 
process. When death comes in a moment the effect is more start- 
ling if not so lasting. The horror, the pity, the intolerable pang 
of sympathy, with which we realize what the sudden end must 
have been to him who met it, without time to think, without time 
to repent, without a moment to prepare liimself for that incalcul- 
able change, affects every mind, even that of the merest spectator; 
how much more that of one whom the victim had left a few liours 
before with a careless word, perhaps an insult, perhaps a jest! 
What changes of mood, what revelations, \vhat sudden adapta- 
tion to the supreme necessity, may come with the blow, the spec- 
tator, even if he be nearest and dearest to the sufferer, can- 
not know. lie knows only what was and is, and his soul is over- 
W'helmed "with pity. In that moment those who have been most 
deeply injured forgive and forget. They remember the time when 
all was well, — the sweet childhood, the blooming youth, the first 
love, the halcyon days before trouble came. Lady Markland had 
felt this universal influence. But when she showed her husband’s 
portrait to Mrs. Warrender, it was not so much with a renewal 
of love as with a subduing hush of pity that her mind was filled. 
This for a time veiled even the relief of her deliverance from what 
had seemed a hopeless lot, which was never altogether to bo ignored, 
but which gr.idually grew upon her, yet still with great gravity 
and pain. She was free from a bondage which had become intoler- 
able to her, which day by day she had felt herself less able to bear; 


130 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


but this gain was at liis cost. To gain anything at the cost of an- 
other is painful to a generous mind; but that it should be at such 
a price, — the price not only of another’s life, but of a life to which 
it had seemed almost impossible that there could be any harmoni- 
ous completion or extension ! For what could he do in another 
world, ^ in a world of spirits ? He had been all fleshly; nothing in 
him that was not of the earth. 

In the majority of cases it is liard enough to understand how a 
spirit, formed apparently for nothing but the uses of earth, should 
be able to adapt itself in a moment to those occupations and in- 
terests which are congenial to another state of existence; but with 
young Lord Marklaiid th s was peculiarly the case. He had seem- 
ed to care for nothing except things which he could not carry with 
him into the unseen. Had other capacities, other desires, develop- 
ed in a moment with the new life ? This is a question which no 
one can answer, and his wife could only think of him as he had 
been. Thei-e seemed nothing but suffering, deprivation, for him, 
in such a change. The wind, when it blew wildly of nights, 
seemed to lier like the moan of a wandering spirit trying vainly to 
get back to the Avorld which it understood, to the pleasures or 
which it was capable. And had she attained relief and freedom 
by such a sacrifice exacted from another ? ‘When comforters bade 
her believe that he had gone to a better place, that it W’as her loss 
but his gain, — which may be, for aught we know, true in every 
case, not only in those of the saints whose natural home is heaven, 
—her heart rose against them, and contradicted them, though she 
said nothing. It was— alas that it should be so!— her gain. She 
dared not, even to herself, deny that ; but how could it he his ? 
lie was a man who had no thought but of the beggarly elements 
of life, no aspiration beyond its present enjoyments; and it was by 
this dreadful overturn in his existence, this taking from him of 
everything he cared for, that she had been made free ! Such <•> 
thought as this is more terrible than sorrow, it is sadder than death. 
It left her a long time very grave, full of something which was al- 
most remorse, as if she had done it wondering w’hether God him- 
self coni 1 make up to poor Geoffrey, "who had never thought of 
Him, for the loss of everything -which he had ever thought of or 
cared for. She could not confide this trouble to any spiritual 
guide, — and indeed she was not a woman to whom a spiritual 
guide was possible. Her problems, her difficulties, remained in 
her own breast, where she worked them out as she could, or, 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 131 

perhaps, in process of time, forgot them, which, in the darkness 
of human understanding, was probably the better way. 

But in one respect he had been just, nay, generous, to his wife. 
He had left the burdened estates, the no-money, the guardianship 
of her child, entirely to her. His old uncle, indeed, was associ- 
ated with her in the guardianship ; but this was merely nominal, 
for old John Markland was very indifferent, more interested in his 
own comforts than in all the children in the world, and had no 
mind to interfere. She found herself thus not only a free woman, 
but with what was equal to a new profession upon her shoulders, 
— the care of her boy’s fortune and of considerable estates, at the 
moment in as low a condition and as badly managed as it was 
possible for estates to be. It was not the fault of Mr. Longstaffe, 
who had all the business of the county in his hands, and who 
had tried in vain to save from encumbrance the property which 
Lord Markland had weighed down almost beyond redemption. 
Mr. Longstaffe, indeed, when he heard of the fatal accident to his 
client, had been unable to refrain from a quick burst of self-con- 
gratulation as to the advantages of a long minority before lie com- 
posed his countenance to the distress and pity which were be- 
coming on such an occasion. When the funeral was over, indeed, 
he permitted himself to say piously that, though such an end was 
very shocking, it was an intervention of Providence for the prop- 
erty, which could not have stood another year of Lord Markland’s 
goings-on. He was a little dubious of Lady Markland’s wisdom 
in taking the burden of the business upon her own shoulders ; 
but on the whole he respected her and her motives, and gave her 
all the help in his poM er. 

And Lady Markland let no grass grow under her feet. She be- 
gan proceedings at once, with an energy which nobody had ex- 
pected from her. The horses were sold and the establishment re- 
duced without delay. The two other houjses, both expensive,— 
the villa in the Isle of Wight, the shooting-box in the Highlands, 
which had been necessary to Lord Markland’s pursuits, were let 
as soon as it was possible to secure tenants. And Geoff and his 
mother began, in one wing of the big house at Markland, a life 
not much different from their past life, except in so far that it 
was free from interruption and anxiety. The pang of loss in such 
a case does not last ; and Lady Markland entered with all the 
zest of an active-minded and intelligent woman into the work 
from which she had been debarred all her previous life. No man. 


132 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


perhaps, — seeing that men can always find serious occupation 
when they choose to do so, — can throw himself into unexpected 
work with the same delight as a woman does, to whom it is salva- 
tion from many lesser miseries, as well as an advantage in itself. 
She had known nothing hitherto, except that everything was go* 
ing badly, and that she was helpless to interfere, to arrest the 
ruin which stared them in the face. And now to feel that she 
might stop that ruin, might even make up for all the losses of the 
past, and place her son in the position his father had lost, was a 
secret happiness beyond description, and gave new life and exhil- 
aration to all her thoughts. 

This change, however, occasioned other changes, which marked 
the alterat on from the old life to the new with difficulties and 
embarrassments which were inevitable. One of these, and the 
nn)St importaiit, has been already indicated. It concerned Geoff. 
1 he change in Geoff’s existence was great. Into the morning- 
room, where his mother and he had constantly sat together, where 
he had his lessons, where all the corners were full of his toys’ 
where his little life hal been spent from morning till night in such 
a close and absorbing companionship as can only exist between a 
parent and an only chdd, there suddenly intruded things and 
thoughts with whicli Geoff had little to do. First came a laro'e 
writing-table, occupying the centre of the room, with all sorts of 
drawers full of papers, and so many letters and notes and account- 
books that Geoff looked at them with astonishment, mingled with 
awe and admiration. “ Did you write all these ? ” he said to his 
mother, touching with a finger a pile of lettis. He was proud of 
the achievement, without remembering that he had himself sat 
very forlorn all the morning, in the light of the great bow-window, 
with h ^ lesson books, and had asked a great many questions 
without more response than a smile and a “ Presently, dear,” 
from the mother who was generally so ready to meet and reply to 
everything he said. Geoff kept his place in tin': window, as he 
had always done, and after Lady Markland had got throimh her 
work there would be an attempt at the lessons, which heretofore 
had been the pleasant occupation of the whole morning,— a de- 
Iightful dialogue, in which the mind of the teacher was as much 
stimulated as that of the pupil, since Geoff conducte l his own ed- 
ucation by means of a multitude of questions, to which it Avas not 
always very easy to reply. Under the new regime, however, this 
long process was not possible, and the lessons had to be said in a 
suinma y manner which did not at all suit Geoff’s ways of think- 
ing. He did iiot complain, but he was puzzled, turning it over in 
ins mind with slow but progressive understanding. ^1 he biir 
writing-table seemed typical to Geoff. It threw a deep shadow 
behind It, making tlie thick, light-colored, much-worn carpet, on 
which he had trotted all his life, dark and gloomy, like the rob- 
bers cave he had often found so much difficulty in inventing in 
the lightness of the room. He had a robbers’ cave to his desire 
now in the dark, dark hole between the two lines of drawers : but 
It was dearly bought. ’ 

Geoff, however, without being as yet quite clear in his mind as 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN, 


133 


to his grievance, had instinctively taken what means were in his 
power to make up for it. There was that robbers’ cave, for one 
thing, whieli had many dramatic possibilities. And he was a boy 
who took a great interest in his fellow-creatures, and liked to lis- 
ten to everything that was said, especially when it was of a per- 
sonal character. He was delighted to be there, notwithstanding 
the strange silence to which he was condemned, when Dickinson, 
the bailiff, came in to make his report and to receive his orders. 
Geoff took the greatest interest in Dickinson’s long-winded stories 
about what was wanted in the village, the cottages that were 
tumbling to pieces, the things that must be done for the farmers: 
and Lady Markland was at first amused and delighted to see how 
her boy entered into everything, and even made a gentle boast 
that Geoff understood better than she did. It was only when Mr. 
Longstaffe and her clergvman simultaneously snubbed her that 
this foolish woman came to herself. Mr. Longstaffe said, in his 
brusque w’ay, that he thought Master Geoff — he begged his par- 
don, little Lord Markland— would be better at his lessnns; while 
Mr. Scarsdale put on a very grave air, and remarked that he 
feared Dickinson might have things to tell his mistress which 
were not fit for a little boy’s ears. This last rebuke had discon- 
certed the young mother sadly, and cost her some tears: for she 
was as innocent as Geoff, and the idea that there were in the vil- 
lage things to tell her that were unfit for the child’s ears threw 
Inw into daily terror, not only for him, but for herself. 

This was one of the things that made it apparent that a new rule 
was necessarv. Her business grew day by day, as she began to 
understand it^bettcr, and the lessons fell more and more into the 
background. Geoff was the soul of loyalty, and did not complain. 
He developed a quite new faculty of silence, as he sat at his table 
in the window, now and then stealing a glance at her to see if he 
might hazard a question. That little figure, seated against the 
lio-iit, was all that Lady Markland had to cheer her, as she set out 
upon this new and stony path of life. He represented everything 
that made her task possible and her burden grateful to her. With- 
out him within her sight, what, she asked herself, would existence 
be to her ? She asked herself this question when it first began 
to be suggested by her friends that Geoff should be sent to school. 
It is one special feature in the change and downfall that happens 
to a woman ■when she becomes a widow that all her fi lends find 
themselves at liberty to advise her. However bad or useless her 
husband may be, so long as he lives she is safe from this exercise 
of friendship ; but when he is dead, all mouths are opened Mr. 
Scarsdale paid her a visit solemnly, ^n order to deliver his soul in 
this respect. “I came on purpose,” he said, as if that was an ad- 
ditional virtue, “to speak to you, dear Lady Markland, \eiy 
seriously about Geoff ” And whether it was by his own impulse, 
or because he was written to on the subject, and inspired by zeal- 
ous friends nearer home, old Mr. Markland wrote to his dear niece 
in the same strain, assuring her that it would bo far the best thing 
to send Geoff to school. To school ! Her little delicate boy, not 
nine till Christmas, who had never been out of his mothers care I 


134 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Lady Markland suffered a great deal from these attacks, and she 
tried hard, by getting up early, by sitting up late, to find time for 
Geoff, as of old; but Geoff himself had fallen into the new ways, 
and the lessons languished. What was she to do ? 

And then it was that the alternative of a tutor was suggested to 
her. A tutor ! That did not seem so terrible. She confided her 
troubles to Warrender, who had fallen into the way of riding over 
to Markland two or three times a week, of checking Dickinson’s 
accounts for her, looking up little bits of law as between landlord 
and tenant, and doing his best to make himself necessary; not 
with any deep-laid plan, but only because to be near her, and 
serve, was becoming more and more the desire of his life. War- 
render was not fond of Geoff, ft is possible, indeed, that his 
spirits rose with a sense of relief at the suggestion of sending that 
inevitable third in all her interviews away ; but he was at that 
stage when the wish of a person beloved is strong enough in a 
young mind to make all endurance possible, and to justify the 
turning upside down of heaven and earth. He had there We re- 
plied boldly that there would be nothing more easy than to find a 
tutor; that he himself would go to town, and make’^ inquiries; and 
that she need contemplate the other and dreadful alternative no 
more. Lady Markland was more grateful to Theo than words 
could say, and she told all her friends, with a serene countenance, 
that she had made up her mind to the tutor. It is a gi'eat thing 
to have made up one’s mind. It gave a satisfaction and calm to 
her spirits that nothing else could have done. Indeed, she was so 
satisfied that she avoided the subject thereafter, and said nothing 
more to Warrender, who had constituted himself her agent, and 
took great care not to question him about what he had been doing 
in London, M'hen she heard that he had been there. For after all, 
to come to a determination is the great thing. The practical part 
may be put in operation at any moment. What is really neces- 
sary is to make up one’s mind. 

Something of the same feeling moved Warrender when he re- 
turned from that expedition to London which has been already 
recorded. Dick Cavendish’s suggestion had been to him a sugges- 
tion from heaven. But when he l eturned home, and as he began 
to think, there were a great many secondary matters to be taken 
into account. He began to realize the interest that would be taken 
by the entire county in a matter which did not concern them in 
the very least. lie realized the astonished look of his mother, and 
felt already his ear transfixed by Minnie’s persistent “Why?” 
Theo saw .all these hindrances by degrees. He said to himself 
indignantly, that it was nobotiy’s bns'iness but his own, and that 
he hoped he was able to judge for himself. But such reflections 
do not make an end of a difficulty; they only show more distinctly 
a consciousness of it. And thus it was that he put off making to 
Lady Markland the proposal he intended to make, just as she, on 
her side, put off asking him whether he had done anything in the 
matter. In the mean time, while the summer lasted, tliere were 
many reasons and excuses for putting off from day to day. 


XYIII. 


The moment, however, was approaching when Warrender had 
to declare for himself what he was going to do. It is true that he 
had given indications of previous intention which had put his 
family on their guard. He had said to Cavendish and to others 
that it was doubtful whether he should return to Oxford, — words 
wdiich had made the ladies look at each other, which had drawn a 
sharp exclamation from Minnie, but which even she had consented 
to sajf nothing of until his resolution was more evident. It might 
be but a caprice of the moment, one of the hasty expressions 
which Theo w'as not unaccustomed to launch at his little audi- 
ence, making them stare and exclaim, but which were never meant 
to come to anything. Most likely this was the case now. And 
the preparations went on as usual without anything further said. 
Mrs. Warrender had curbed her owm impatience; she had yielded 
to his wdshes and remained at the Warren, with a sympathy for 
his sudden fascination and for the object of it which no one else 
shared ; but she looked not without longing for the time when he 
should return to his studies, — when there should no longer be any 
duty to keep her to the Warren, nothing to make self-denial neces- 
sary. The thought of the free air outside this little green island 
of retreat almost intoxicated her by times, as the autumn days 
stole on, and October came red and glowdng, with sharp winds but 
golden sunsets which tinged the w^oods. By this time. Chatty, too, 
began to have sensations unusual to her, — such as must thrill 
through the boat upon the shore when the little waves run up and 
kiss its sides, wooing it to the water, for which it was made. Chat- 
ty had been almost as much a piece of still life as the boat, but the 
baptism of the spray had been flung in her face, and dreams of 
triumphant winds and dazzling waves outside had crept into her 
cave. Minnie was conscious of no longings, but she knew that it 
was time to prepare Theo’s linen, to see that everything was 
marked, so that he might have a chance at least of getting his 
things back from the wash. And Chatty had knitted him half a 
dozen pairs of silk socks,— some in stripes of black and white, 


186 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


some violet, like a cardinal’s —suitable for his mourning. No one, 
however, mentioned the subject until the beginning of October, 
when, as they sat at luncheon one day, it was suddenly introduced 
by Miss Warrender without timidity or recollection that there was 
any doubt about it. “ When does term begin, Theo ? ” his sister 
asked, in the midst of the usual conversation. The other ladies, 
who were more quick to sympathize with Theo’s feelings, held 
their breath; but Minnie put her question quite simply, as if she 
expected him (as she did) to say “ the loth ” or “ the I7th, ’ as the 
case might be. 

Theo paused a moment, and cast a glance round them all. Then 
he answered in a voice which seemed louder than usual because it 
was somewhat defiant. “ I don’t know,” he said slowly; ‘‘ and if 
you want the truth, I don’t care.” 

“ Theo! ” cried Minnie, with a little scream. Chatty, who had 
been contemplating at her ease, when this conversation began, the 
bubbles rising in a glass of aerated water which she was holding 
up to the light, set it down very quickly, and give him an appeal- 
ing look across the table. Mrs. Warrender looked at him, too, 
pretending, poor lady, not to understand. “ But, my dear,” she 
said, “we must get everything ready; so it is very necessary to 
know.” 

“ There is nothing to be got ready, so far as I am aware,” he 
replied, with a flush on his face, and the look of a man who is 
making a stand against his opponents. “I am not going up this 
term, if that is what you mean.” 

Then all three looked at him with different degrees of remons- 
trance, protest, or appeal. Mrs. Warrender was much too sensible 
of incapacity to prevail to risk any controversy. And even Minnie 
was so confounded by the certainty of his tone that, except another 
resounding “Theo!” the sound of which was enough to have 
made any man pause in an evil career, she too, for the moment, 
found nothing to say. 

“ My dear, don’t you think that’s a great pity ?” his mother 
said very mildly, but with a countenance which said much 
more. 

“ I don’t wish to discuss the question,” he said. “ I thought J 
had told you before. I don’t mean to be disagreeable, mother; but 
don’t you think that in my own case I should know best.^ ” 

“ Theo! ” cried Minnie for the third time, “ you are more than 
disagreeable ; you are ridiculous. How should you know best, — 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


137 


a boy like you ? You tliiiik you can do what you like because poor 
papa is dead, and we are iiotliing but women. Oh, it is very un- 
generous and undutiful to my mother: but it is ridiculous, 
too.” 

My mother can speak for herself,” said the young man. “ I 
don’t ow'e any explanations to you.” 

‘‘You will have to give explanations to every one, whether you 
owe them or not! ” cried Minnie. “ I know what people think and 
how they talk. There is always supposed to be some reason for it 
when a young man does n’t go back to his college. They think 
he has got into disgrace; they think it is some bad scrape. We 
shall have to make up excuses and explanations.” 

“ They may think what they please, as far as I am concerned,” 
he replied. 

“ But, my dear, she is right, though that does not matter very 
much,” said Mrs. Warrender. “ There will be a great many in- 
quiries; and explanations will have to be given. That is not the 
most important, Theo. Did n’t you tell me that if you lost this 
term you could not go in, as you call it, for honors ? I thought 
you had told me so. ” 

“ Honors! ” he said contemptuously. “ What do honors mean ? 
I found out the folly of that years ago. They are a sort of trade- 
mark, very good for business purposes. Bronson has sense on his 
side when he goes in for honors. They are good for the college to 
keep up its reputation as a teaching machine; and they are good 
for a schoolmaster in the same way. But what advantage would 
all the honors of the University be to me! ” he added, with a laugh 
of scorn. “ There’s an agricultural college some^vdlere. There 
would be some meaning in it if I took honors there.” 

“You have a strange idea of your own position, Theo,” said 
Mrs. Warrender, roused to indignation. “You are not a farmer, 
but a country gentleman.” 

“ Of the very smallest,” he said,— “ a little squire. If I were a 
good farmer and knew my trade, I should be of more use in the 
world.” 

“ A country gentleman,” cried Minnie, who had kept silence 
with difficulty, and now seized the first opportunity to break in, 
“ is just the very finest thing a man can be. Why, what are half 
the nobility compared to us ? There are all sorts of people in the 
nobility, — people who have been in trade, brewers and bankers 
and all sorts; even authors, and those kind of people. But I have 


138 


A COUNTliY GENTLEMAN. 


always heard that an English country gentleman who has been in 
the same position for hundreds of years — Why, Theo, there is not 
such a position in the world! We are the bulwark of the country. 
We are the support of the constitution. Where would the Queen 
be, or the Church, or anything, without the gentry ? Why, Theo, 
an English ‘country gentleman ” — * 

She paused from mere want of breath. On such a subject Miss 
Warrender felt that words should never have failed; and she de- 
voutly believed everything she said. 

“ If he’s so grand as that,” said Theo, with a laugh, “what do 
you suppose is the consequence to him of a little more Latin and 
Greek ? ” 

Minnie would have said with all sincerity, Nothing at all; but 
she paused, remembering that there were prejudices on this sub- 
ject. “ You might as well say. What’s the use of shoes and stock- 
ings,” she said, “ or of nice, well-made clothes, such as a gentleman 
ought to wear? (By the bye, Mr. Cavendish, though I did not 
care so much for him this time as the last, had his clothes very well 
made.) Education is just like well-made things,” she added, "with 
a sense that she had made, if not an epigram, something very like 
it, — a phrase to be remembered and quoted as summing up the 
discussion. 

“ If that’s all,” said Warrender, “ I’ve got enough for that.” The 
reference to Cavendish, and the epigram, had cleared the atmos- 
phere and given a lighter tone to the family controversy, and the 
young man felt that he had got over the crisis better than he 
hoped. He waved his hand to Minnie amicably as he rose from 
the table, thank thee, Jew,” he said, with a lighter tone and 
laugh than were at all usual with him, as he went away. 

The ladies sat silent, listening to his steps as he went through 
the hall, pausing to get his hat; and no one spoke till he suddenly 
appeared again, crossing the lawn toward the gate that led into 
the village. Then there was a simultaneous long breath of ful- 
filled expectation, not to be called a sigh. 

“Ah.”’ said Minnie, “I thought so. He always goes that 
way.” 

“ It is the way that leads to all the places Theo would be likely 
to go to.” 

“You mean it leads to Markland, mamma. Oh, I know very 
well what Theo means. He thinks he is very deep, but I see 
through him ; and so would you, if you were to think. I never 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


139 


thought him so clever as you all did: but that he should let that 
woman twist him round her little finger, and give up everything 
for her! — I could not have supposed he would be so silly as that.” 

Mrs. Warrender made no reply except a brief reproof to her 
daughter for speaking of Lady Markland as “ that woman.” Per- 
liaps she was herself a little vexed with Lady Markland, though 
she was aware it was unjust. But she was not vexed with Theo. 
She followed his foolishness (for to be sure it was foolishness, poor 
boy 1 ) with a warmth of sympathy such as very rarely animates a 
mother in such circumstances. In her growing anxiety about him, 
in the commotion of mind vutli which she had watched the rising 
passion in his, there had been something which seemed to Mrs. 
Warrender like a new vicarious life- She had been, as it were, the 
spectator of the drama from the day wdien, to her great surprise, 
Theo had insisted, almost compelled her to offer her services and 
society to the young widow. His vehemence then, and a look in 
his eyes with which she was noways acquainted, but of which, as 
a woman capable of similar emotion, she divined the meaning, 
had awakened her, wdth a curious uprising of her whole being, to 
the study of this new thing, to see what was going to come of it, 
and how’ it would develop. She had never known in her own per- 
son -what passion was; she had never been the object of it, nor had 
she felt that wild and all-absorbing influence ; but she recognized 
it when she saw it in her son, with the keenest thrill of sympa- 
thetic feeling. She watched him with a kind of envy, a kind of 
admiration, a wondering enthusiasm, which absorbed her almost 
as much as his love absorbed him. She who had been sur- 
rounded by dullness all her life, mild affections, stagnant 
minds, an easy, humdrum attachment which had all the external 
features of indifference, — it brought a curious elation to her mind 
to see that her boy was capable of this flaming and glowing pas- 
sion. This had curbed her impatience to leave the Warren as 
nothing else could have done, and made her willing to wait and 
watch, to withstand the pressure of the long, monotonous days, 
and content herself with the dead quiet of her life. She had not 
known even anxiety in the past. That of itself was a vivifying 
influence now. 

A little later Mrs. Warrender drove into Highcombe with Chatty, 
an expedition which she had made several times of late, as often as 
the horses could be spared. The house in Highcombe, which was her 
own, which she was to live in with the girls if Theo married, or 


140 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


anything happened, was being put in order, and this was a gentle in 
terest. Fortunately, upon this afternoon Minnie was occupied in thr 
parish. It was her “ day: and nothing in heaven or earth was evee 
permitted to interfere with Minnie’s “ day.” Ihe other two were 
pleased to be alone together, though they never said so, but kept 
up even between themselves the little fiction of saying, Wliat a 
pity Minnie could not come ! Chatty sympathized with her 
mother more than Minnie had ever done, and was very glad in 
her heart to ask a question or two about what was happening and 
wdiat Theo could mean, to which Mrs. Warrender answered with 
much greater ease and fullness than if her elder d^-ughter had 
been present to give her opinion. Chatty asked with bated 
breath whether there w^as not something wicked and terrible in 
the thought that Lady Marklaud, a woman wlio w^as married, 
and who had been consoled in her affliction by the clergyman and 
all her friends, reminding her that her husband was not lost but 
gone before, and that she would meet him again,— that she should 
be loved and wooed by another man. Chatty grew red with shame 
as she asked the question. It seemed to her an insult to any w^o- 
man. “ As if our ties were for this w'orld only ! ” she said. 

Mrs. Warrender in her reply waived the theological question al- 
together, and shook her head, and declared that it was not the 
thought that Lady Marklaud was a widow or that she 'svas Tlieo’s 
senior which troubled her. “But she will never think of him,” 
said the mother. “ Oh, Chatty, my heart is sorry for my poor 
boy. He is throwing away his love and the best of his life. She 
will never think of him. She is full of her owm affairs and of her 
child. She will take all that Theo gives her, and never make him 
any retuni.” 

“ Then, mamma, would you wish ’’—cried Chatty, astonished. 

“ I wish anything that would make him happy,” her mother 
said. “It is a great thing to be happy.” She said this more to 
herself than to her daughter ; and to be sure, it was a most un- 
guarded admission for a woman to make to a young person. 

“ Does being happy always mean”— Here Chatty paused, with 
the sudden flame of a blush almost scorching her cheeks. She had 
turned her head in the opposite direction, as if looking at some- 
thing among the trees; and perhaps this was why Mrs. Warren- 
der did not hear what she said. Always love — Chatty did not 
say. Various events had suggested this question, which she was 
very glad her mother did not hear. 


XIX. 


Warrexder went off very quickly upon his long walk. He could 
not but feel, notwitlistauding his little bravado of indifference, 
that it was a very important decision, which he had made irrevoca- 
ble by thus publishing it. For some time it had been certainty 
in his mind ; but nothing seems a certainty until it has been said, 
and now that it had been said, the thought that he had absolutely 
delivered himself over into the nameless crowd, that he had re- 
nounced all further thought of distinction in the only way he 
knew of for acquiring it, was somewhat awful to him. The un- 
imaginable difference which exists between a man within whose 
reach a first class is still dangling and he who has no hope but to 
be ‘‘ gulfed ” is little comprehensible by the unacademical mind; 
but it is not one to be contemplated without a shudder. When he 
thought of what he was resigning, when he thought of what he 
must resort to, the blood seemed to boil in Theo’s veins and to 
ring in his ears. To be a passman ; to descend among the crowd; 
to consort with those who had “pulled through,” perhaps with 
difficulty, who had gone through all sorts of dull workings and 
struggles, and to whom their books were mere necessary instru- 
ments of torture, to be got done with as soon as possible. — these 
■were things terrible to contemplate. And in the silence of his 
own soul, it was difficult to console himself with those theories** 
about the trademark, and the merely professional use of academic 
distinction. It was all true enough, and yet it was not true. 
Even now he thought of his tutor with a pang; not the tutor at 
college, who had dropped him for Bronson, but the genial old 
tutor at school, who had hoped such great things for him. He 
said, “ Poor old Boreas ! ” to himself, sympathizing in the disap- 
pointment with which the news would be received. Warrender a 
passman ! Warrender “ gulfed ” ! Nobody would believe it. 
This gave him many pangs as he set out upon his walk. He had 
sacrificed his early glories to the fastidious fancy of youth; but he 
had never really intended to be distanced by Bronson, to fall out 
of the ranks at the end. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


142 

Softer thoughts began to steal over him as he pursued his way, 
as he began to draw near the iieighborliood of Markland. Half- 
way between the houses was a little wood, through which the 
road passed, and which was like a vestibule to the smiling place 
where her throne and empire was. To other eyes it was no more 
smiling than the other side, but as soon as Tlieo became coiiscious, 
in the distance, of the bare height, all denuded of trees, on which 
Markland stood, the landscape seemed to change for him. There 
was sunshine in it which was nowhere else, more quiet skies and 
warmer light. He throw down the burden of his thoughts among 
the autumn leaves that strewed the brook in that bit of woodland, 
and, on the other side, remembered with an elation that went to 
his head that he had this sacrifice, though she might never know 
it, to lay at her feet; the flower of his life, the garland of honor, 
the violet crown, all to scatter on her path. He would rather she 
should put her foot on them than that they should decorate his 
brows, — even if she never knew. » 

With these thoughts, he sped along the countiy road, which no 
longer was so green and so warm with sunshine as before. Mark- 
land looked cold in its bareness against the distant sky, all 
flushed with flying clouds ; the young saplings abou tbent before the 
wind, as if they supplicated for shelter and a little warmth, and 
the old tottering cedar behind the house looked as if the next blast 
would bring it down wfith a crash. There had been a great deal 
of planting going on, but this only added to the straggling lines of 
weak-kneed, uncomfortable younglings, which fluttered their hand- 
ful of leaves, andushivered in every wind that blew. Lady Mark- 
land no longer sat on the terrace. She received her familiar visitor 
where only intimate friends were allowed to come, in the morning- 
room, to wdiich its new distinction gave something of the barren- 
ness and rigidity of a room of business. The big wndting-table 
filled up the centre, and nothing remained of its old aspect except 
Geoff’s little settlement within the round of the window; a low 
table for his few lesson books, where less lawful publications, in 
the shape of stories, were but too apt to appear, and a low, but 
virtuously hard chair, on which he w’as supposed to sit, and — 
work; but there was not nmch work done, as everybody knew. 

Lady ISIarkland did not rise to receive her visitor. She had a 
book in her right hand, which she did not even disturb herself to 
put down. It was her left hand which she held out to Warren der, 
with a smile : and this sign of a friendship which had gone be- 


A COUNTIiY GENTLEMAN. 


143 


yoncl all ceremony made liis heart overflow. By an iinusnal chance, 
Geoff was not there, staring witli his little sharp eyes, and this 
made everything sweeter. lie had her to himself at last. 

“ Do I disturb you ? Are you busy ? ” he said. 

“ Jfot at all. At least, if I am busy, it is nothing that requires 
immediate attention. I am a little stupid about those drainages, 
and what is the landlord’s part. I wonder if you know any better ? 
You must have the same sort of things to do ? ” 

“ I am ashamed to say I don’t, now, but I’ll get it all up,” he 
said eagerly, — “ that must be perfectly easy,— and give you the 
result.” 

“ You will cpm me, in short,” said Lady Markland, with a smile. 
“You ought to be somebody’s private secretary. How well you 
would do it ! That was all right about the lease. Mr. Longstaffe 
was very much astonished that I should know so much. I did not 
tell him it was you.” 

“ It was not I !” cried Warrender. “ I had only the facts, and 
you supplied the understanding. I suppose that is to be my trade, 
too; it will be something to think that you have trailied me for 
it.” 

“ That we have studied together,” she said, “ with most of the 
ignorance on my side, and most of the knowledge on yours. Oh, 
I am not too humble. I allow that I sometimes see my way out 
of a difficulty, with a jump, before you have reasoned it out. That 
sort of thing is conceded to a woman. I am ‘ not without intelli- 
gence,’ Mr. Longstaffe himself says. But what do you mean to 
imply by that tone of regret — you suppose it is to be your trade ?” 

“I don’t mean anything, — to make you ask, perhaps. I have 
no doubt I mean that finding out wdiat was the exact pound of 
flesh the farmers could demand, and how much on our side we 
could exact, did not seem very lofty work: until I remembered 
that you were doing it, too.” 

“ My doing it makes no difference,” said Lady Markland. “ You 
ought to know better than to make me those little compliments. 
But for all that, it is a fine trade. Looking after the land is the 
best of trades. Everything must have begun with it, and it will 
go on forever. And the pleasure of thinking one can improve 
and hand it over richer and better for the expenditure of a little 
brains upon it, — as well as other condiments,” she said, with a 
laugh. “ Guano, you will say, is of more use perhaps, than the 
brains.” 


144 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


She carried off a little enthusiasm, which had lit up her eyes^ 
with this laugh at the end. 

“I don’t think so,” said Warrender. “Did you suppose I 
meant a compliment ? but to see you giving yourself up to this, 
you, who— and to remember that I had' been perha] s grumbling, 
thinking of the Schools, and other such paltry honors.” 

” Oh, not paltry,— not paltry at all ; very, very much the re- 
verse. I am sure no one interested in you can think so.” 

“ I think so myself,” he said. “ I must tell you my experiences 
on that subject.” And with tliis he told her all his liitle story 
about the devotion of the Dons; about their discovery of his pur- 
suits, and the slackening of their approbation; and about how 
Bronson (a very good fellow, and quite aware of their real mean- 
ing) had taken liis place. Lady Markland was duly interested, 
amused, and indignant; interested enough to be q^^ite sincere in 
her expressions of symi^athy, and yet independent enough to smile 
a little at the conflict between w'ounded feeling and phifosophy on 
War render’s part. 

“ Ihit,” she added, with a woman’s liking for a practicable 
medium, “ you might have postponed your deeper reading till you 
had done what was necessary, and so pleased both them and 
yourself.” 

“I thought one could not serve two masters,” said Theo; “ and 
that is why I encourage myself, by your example, to take to the 
land and its duties, and give the other poor little bubble of repu- 
tation up.” 

“ Don’t talkof my example,” she said. “ I am not disinterested 
I am making no choice. What I am doing is for the only object 
I have in life, the only thing I have in the world.” 

He did not ask any question, but he fixed her with intent, in- 
quiring eyes. 

“ You need not look as if you had any doubt what it w as. It is 
Geoff, of course. 1 don’t care very much for anything else. But 
to hand back his inheritance unburdened, to make a man of my 
poor little Geoff ’’—Her bright eyes moistened with quick-spring- 
ing tears. She smiled, and her face looked to Theo like the face 
of an angel ; though he w’as impatient of the motive, he adored 
the result. And then she gave her head a little shake, as if to 
throw off this undue emotion. “ I need not talk any high-flowm 
nonsense about such a simple duty, need I ?” she said, once more 
with a soft laugh — Instead of making the most of her pathetic 
position, she would alw'ays ignore the claim she had upon sym- 
pathy. Her simple duty,— that was all. 

“We must not discuss th.at question,” he said; “for if I were 
to say what I thought — And this brings me to what I w^anted to 
talk to you about. Lady Markland. Geoff” 

She looked at him, wdth a sudden catching of her breath. She 
had no expectation of a sudden invasion of the practical into the 
vague satisfaction of the pause which kept Geoff still by his 
motlier’s side. And yet she knew that it was her duty to listen, to 
accept any reasonabie suggestion that might be made. 


145 


A COUNTJiT GENTLEMAN. 

There was that question,— between a school and a tutor,” he 
said. “ I have been thinking a great deal about it.* We settled, 
you remember, that to send him away to school would be too 
much ; not good for himself, as he is delicate : and for you it 
would be hard. You would miss him dreadfully.” 

“ Miss him !” she said. As if these couimon words could ex- 
press the vacancy, the blank solitude, into which her life without 
Geoff would settle down ! 

^ “ But it seems to me now that there is another side to the ques- 
tion,” he continued, with what seemed to Lady Markland a pitiless 
persistency. “ A tutor here would be too much in your way. You 
would not like to let him live by himself altogether. His presence 
would be a constant embarrassment. You could not have him 
with you, nor could you, for Geoff’s sake, keep him quite at a 
distance.” 

She held out her hands to stop this too clear exposition. 
“Don’t !” she cried. “Do you think I have not considered all 
that? You only make me see the difficulties more and more 
clearly, and I see them so clearly already. But what am I to 
do ? ” 

“Dear Lady Markland,” he said, rising from his chair, “ I want 
to propose something to you.” The young '’man had grown so 
pale, yet by moments flushed so suddenly, and had altogether such 
an air of agitation and passionate earnestness, that a certain alarm 
flashed into her mind. The word had an ominous sound. Could 
he be thinking— was it iDossible. — She felt a hot flush of shame 
and a cold shiver of horror and fear at the thought, which after 
all was not a thought, but only a sharp pang of fright, which went 
through her like an arrow. He saw that she looked nervously at 
him, but that was easily explained by what had gone before. 

“ It is this,” he said. “It is quite simple; it will cost nobody 
anything, and give a great deal of pleasure to me. I want you to 
let me be Geoff’s tutor. Wait a moment before you answer. It 
will be no trouble. I have absolutely nothing to do. ]\[y father 
left all his affairs in complete order; all my farms are let, every- 
thing is going on smoothly. And you must remember our little 
bit of a place is very different from all you have to think of. No, 
I don’t want to thrust myself upon you. I will ride over, or drive 
over, or walk over every day. The distance is nothing; it will do 
me all the good in the world. And honors or no honors, I have 
plenty of sdiolarship for Geoff. Ah, don’t refuse me; it will be 
such a pleasure. I have set my heart on being tutor to Geoff.” 

She had listened to him with a great many endeavors to break 
in. She stopped him at last almost by force, putting out her hand 
and taking his when he came to a little pause for breath. “ Mr. 
Warrender,” she said, almost as breathless as he, tears in her 
eyes, her voice almost choked, “how can I thank you for the 
thought ! God bless you for the thought. Oh, how good, how 
kind, how full of feeling ! I hope if you are ever in trouble you 
will have as good a friend as you have been to me.” 

“If you will be my friend, Lady Markland”— 


146 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


‘‘ That I will,” she cried, “ all my life; yet never be able to make 
np to you for'this.” She had put out both her hands, whicli he 
held ti-embling, but dared not stoop to kiss lest he should betray 
himself. After a iiioiiient, half laughing, half sobbing, she bade 
him sit down again beside her. You are very, very good,” she 
said; ‘-but there are a few things to be talked over. First, you 
are going back to Oxford in a week or two.” 

“I am not going up this term; that is settled already.” 

‘'Not going up! But I thought you must go up. You have 
not taken your degree.” 

“Oh, that is not till next year,” he said, liijhtlv, confident in 
her ignorance of details. “ there is no reaW why I should 
hurry; and, in fact, I had made up mv mind some time since, so 
there is no difliculty so far as that goesl” 

She looked at hiin with keen scrutiny; her mind in a moment 
flashing over the whole course of their conversation like a light 
over a landscape, yet seeing it imperfectly, as a landscape under a 
sudden flash can only be seen, with a perception of its chief feat- 
ures, but nothing more. This young man had been tenderly kind 
all through. Since the moment when he came into this very room 
to tell her of her husband’s accident he had never forsaken her. 
She had not thoughbthat such chivalrous kindness existed in the 
world ; but she was yet young enough and inexperienced enough 
to believe in it and in its complete disinterestedness ; for what 
return could she ever make for all he had done ? And now, was 
this a crowning service, an offer of brotherly kindness which was 
almost sublime, or— what was it ? She looked at him as if she 
would see into his soul. “ Oh,” she said, “I know your generosity. 

I feel as if I could not trust you ■when you say it doesn’t matter. 
How'^ could I ever forgive myself if vou were injuring your own 
prospects for Geoff !— if it w^as for Geoff.” 


For Geoff 1 Warrender laughed aloud, almost roughly, in a way 
which lialf offended her. Could anybodv suppose lor a moment 
that for that ugly, precocious little boy— ‘‘You need not distress 
yourself on that account. Lady Markland,” he said. “ It is not 
for Geoff,— I had made up my mind on that question long ago,— 
but by w'ay of occupying my idle time. And if you tliink me 
good enough” — 

Oh, good enough !” she cried. But she w’as too much alarmed 
and startled to make any definite reply. Almost for the first time 
she became conscious that Theo was neither a boy nor a visionary 
young hero of the Sir Galahad kind, but a man like other men. 
The fnrther discovery which awaited her, that she herself was not 
a dignified recluse from life, a queen mother ruling the affairs of 
her son s kingdom for him and not for herself, but in other people’s 
^ young w^oman, still open to other thoughts, w^as 

still far from Lady Markland’s mind. 


XX. 


“ Tou will give me my answer after you have thought it ah 
over.” 

“ Certainly you shall have an answer: and in the mean time my 
thanks; or if there is any word more grateful than thanks, — more 
than words can say” — 

He turned to look back as he closed the little gate for foot pas- 
sengers at the end of the bare road which was called the avenue, 
and took off his hat as she waved her hand to him. Then she 
turned back again toward the house. It was a ruddy October 
afternoon, the sun going down in gold and crimson, with already 
the deeper, more gorgeous colors of winter in the sky. Geoff was 
hanging upon her arm, clinging to it with both of his, walking in 
her very shadow, as was his wont. 

“ Why do you thank Theo Warrender like that ? What has he 
done for us ?” asked Geoff. 

“ I don’t think, dear, that you should talk of him in that famil- 
iar way, — Theo! He is old enough to be” — here she paused for 
a moment, not pleased with the suggestion, and then added— “ he 
might be your elder brother, at least.” 

‘‘Not unless I had another mamma,” said Geoff. “Theo is 
about as old as you.” 

“Oh, no; much younger than I am. Do you remember you 
once said you would like him for your tutor, Geoff ? ” 

“I don’t think I should now,” said the little boy. “That was 
because he was so clever. I begin to think now perhaps it would 
be better not to have such a clever one. When you are very small 
you don’t understand.” 

“ You are not very big still, my dear boy.” 

“No, but things change.” Geoff had a way of twisting his little 
face, as he made an observation wiser than usual, which amused 
the world in general, but not his mother. He was not a pretty 
boy ; there was nothing in his appearance to satisfy a young wo- 
man in her ambition and vanity for her child; but his little face 


148 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


was turned into a grotesque by those queer contortions. She put 
her hand upon his arm hastily. 

“Don’t make such faces, Geoff. Why should you twist your 
features out of all shape, with every w^ord you say ? ” 

This was perhaps too strong, and Geoff felt it so. “ I don’t 
want to make faces,” he said, “ but Avhat else have you got to 
do it with when you are thinking ? I’ll tell you how I have 
found out that Tlieo Warreiider would be too clever. That day 
when he showed me how' to do my Latin” — The boy here 
paused, with a curious elfish gravity. “ It was a long time ago.” 

“ I remember, dear.” 

“ Well, you were all talking, saying little speeches, as people do, 
you know, that come to pay visits : and he was out of it — so he 
talked to me. But now, when he comes, he makes the speeches, 
and you answer him, and you two run on till I think you never 
will be done ; and it is I who am out of it,” said Geoff, wdth great 
gravity, though without offence. Ilis mother pressed his clinging 
arms to her side, with a sudden exclamation. 

“ My owm boy, you feel out of it when I am talking !— you, my 
only child, my only comfort !” Lady Markland held him close to 
her, and quick tears sprang to her eyes. 

“ It is nothing to make any fuss about, mamma. Sometimes I 
like it. I listen, and you are very funny when you talk— that is, 
not you, but Theo Warrender. He talks as if nothing was right 
but only as you thought. I suppose he thinks you are very clever. 
“ Geoff paused for a moment, and gave her an investigating 
look; and then added in a less assured tone, “And I suppose you 
are clever, ain’t you, mamma ?” 

She was moved to a laugh, in the midst of other feelings. “ Not 
that I know of, Geoff. I w^as never thought to be clever, so far as 
I am aware.” 

“You are, though,” he said, “when you don’t make speeches 
as all the people do. I think you are cleverer wdth Theo than with 
anybody. What was he talking of to-day, for instance, when I 
w^as aw^ay ? ” 

The question was put so suddenly that she was almost embar- 
rassed by it. “He was saying that he wished to be your tutor, 
Geoff. It was very kind. To save me from parting wdth you, — 
which I think would be more than I could bear, — and to save me 
the trouble of having a— strange gentleman in the house.” 

“ But he would be a strange gentleman, just the same.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


149 


“ He is a friend, the kindest friend; and then he would not be 
in the house. He means to come over every day, just for your 
lessons. But it is too much, — it is too much to accept from any 
one,” she said suddenly, struck for the first time with that view. 

“ That would be very jolly ! ” cried Geoff. ‘ ‘ I should like that: 
if he came only for my lessons, and then went away, and after- 
wards there would be only you and me, — nobody but you and me, 
just as we used to be all the time, before” — 

“ Oh, don’t say that I We were not always alone — before : there 
was”— 

“ I know,” said the little boy; but after a moment’s pause he re- 
sumed: “ You know that generally we were alone, mamma. I 
like that, — you and me, and no one else. Yes, let Tlieo come and 
teach me ; and then when lessons are over go away.” 

Lady Markland laughed. “ You must think it a great privilege 
to teach yon, Geoff. He is to be allowed that favor, — to do all he 
can for us,— and as soon as he has done it to be turned from the 
door. That would be kind on his part, but rather churlish on ours, 
don’t you think ? ” 

“ Oh,” said the boy, “ then he does it for something ? You said 
tutors worked for money, and that Theo was well off, and did not 
want money. 1 see ; then he wants something else ? Is no one 
kind just for kindness ? Must everybody be paid ? ” 

“In kindness, surely, Geoff.” 

The boy looked at her with his little twinkling eyes and a twist 
in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps he did not understand the 
instinctive suspicion in his mind, — indeed, there is no possibility 
that he could understand it ; but it moved him with a keen pre- 
monition of danger. “I should think it w^as easiest to pay in 
money,” he said, wuth precocious wisdom. “ How could you and 
me be kind to Theo ? I don’t know what he could want from you 
and me.” 

They strolled homeward, during this conversation, along the 
bare avenue, through the lines of faint, weak-kneed young trees 
which had been plontcd with a far-off hope of some time, twenty 
years hence, filling up the gaps. Little Geoff, with all the chaos 
of ideas in his mind, a child unlike other children, just saved 
from the grave of his race, the last little feeble representative of a 
house which had been strong and famous in its day, was not un- 
like one of the feeble saplings which rustled and swayed in the 
wailing autumn wind. The sunshine slanted upon the two figures, 


150 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


tlirowiiig long shadows across the damp grass and copse, which 
only differed from the long slim shadows of the young trees in 
their steadiness as they moved along by their own impulse, in- 
stead of blowing about at the mercy of the breeze, like the shades 
of the old oaks and beeches. The scene had a mixture of desola- 
tion and hopefulness wdiich was very characteristic : everything 
young and new, where all should have been mature and well 
established, if not old ; yet in the mere fact of youth conveying a 
promise of victory over the winds and chills of winter; over the 
storms and tribulations of life. If they survived, the old avenue 
would rustle again with forest wealth, the old house would raise 
up its head; but fa# the present, what was wanted was w^arin and 
shelter and protection, tempered winds and sunshine and friends, 
protection from the cold north and blighting east. The little 
human sapling was the one most difficult to guard ; and who couK 
tell before the event which method would be best for Geoff ? 

Happily, no serious question keeps possession long of a child’s 
brain, and the evening passed, as all their quiet evenings passed, 
without any further discussion. But Geoff’s question echoed in 
Lady Markland’s mind after the child had forgotten it and was 
fast asleep: “ How could you and me be kind ? ” How was she to 
repay Theo for a devotion so great ? It was like the devotion of a 
knight in the times of chivalry. She had said to herself and 
others many times, how kind he was, how could she ever repay 
him, he was like a brother. But it was true, after all, that every- 
body had to be paid. How could she reward Theo for his devo- 
tion ? What could she do for him ? There was nothing within 
her power; she had no influence to help him on, no social advan- 
tage, no responsive favor of any kind. He w'as better off, better 
educated, more befriended, more surrounded, than she was. He 
wanted nothing from her. How could she show her gratitude, 
even? “How canyon and me be kind?” she said to herself, 
with a forlorn pride that Geoff always saw the heart of the diffi- 
culty. But this did not help iier to any reply. 

Next morning Mr. Longstaffe, the “ man of business,” who had 
the affairs of half the county in his hands, came to Markland to 
see her, and any idea there might have been of Geoff’s lessons 
had to be laid aside. He had to be dismissed even from his seat 
in the v-^indow, where he generally superintended almost every- 
thing that went on. With an internal reflection how much better 
it would have been had Theo begun his labors, Lady Markland 


A COUNTJiY GENTLEMAN, 


151 


sent the boy away. “ Take care of yourself, Geoff. If you go out, 
take Bowen with you, or old Black.” Bowen was the nui'se, whom 
Geoff felt himself to have long outgrown, and Black was an old 
groom, M’hose company was dear to Geoff on ordinary occasions, 
but for whom he felt no particular inclinati n to-day. The little 
boy went out and took a meditative walk, his thoughts returning 
to the question Avhich had been put before them last night; Theo 
Warrender for his tutor, to come daily for his lessons, and then to 
go away. With the unconscious egotism of a child, Geoff would 
have received this as perfectly reasonable, a most satisfactory ar- 
rangement; and indeed it appeared to him, on thinking it over, 
that his mother’s suggestion of a payment in kindness was on the 
whole somewhat absurd. “Kindness!” Geoff said to himself, 
“ who’s going to be unkind ? ” He now proceeded to consider the 
subject at large. After a time he slapped his little thigh, as Black 
did when he was excited. “I’ll tell you!” he cried to himself. 
“ I’ll offer to go over there half the time.” He paused at this, for, 
besides the practical proof of kindness to Theo which he felt 
would thus be given, a sudden pleasure seized upon and expanded 
his little soul. To go over there : to save Theo the trouble, and 
for himself to burst forth into a new world, a universe of sensa- 
tions unknown, — into freedom, independence, self-guidance! An 
exhilaration and satisfaction liitherto unexperienced went up in 
fumes to Geoff’s brain. It was scarcely noon, a still and beautiful 
October day; the sky as blue as summer, the trees all russet and 
gold, the air with just enough chill in it to make breathing a keen 
deliglit. Why not now ? These words, Geofi: said afterwards, 
came into his mind as if somebody had said them; but the bold- 
ness and wildness of the daring deed suggested by them ran 
through his little veins like wine. He rather flew than ran to the 
stables which were sadly shorn of their ancients plendor, two 
horses and Geoff’s pony being all that remained. 

“Saddle me my pony. Black!” the boy cried. “Yes, Master 
Geoff” (the old man would not say, my lord); “but tlie cob’s 
lame, and I can’t take Mirali without my lady’s leave.” “Never 
mind. I’m going such a little way. Mamma never says anything 
W’hen I go a little way.” Was it a lie, or only a fib ? This ques- 
tion of casuistry gave Geoff great trouble afterwards; for (he 
said to himself) it was only a little way, nothing at all, though 
mamma of course thought otherwise. “ You’ll be very careful. 
Master Geoff,” said the old man. Black had his own reasons for 
not desiring to go out that day, which made him all the more 
willing to give credence to Geoff’s promise; and the boy had never 
shown any signs of foolhardiness to make his attendants nervous. 
With an exultation which he could scarcely restrain, Geoff found 
himself on his pony, unrestrained and alone. When he got beyond 
the park, from which he made his exit by a gate which the ser- 
vants used, and which generally stood open in the morning, a sort 
of awful delight was in his little soul. He was on the threshold 
of the world. The green lane before him led into the unknown. 
He paused a moment, rising in his stirrups, and looked back at the 


152 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


house standing bare upon the ridge, with all its windows twin- 
kling in the sun. His heart beat, as tlie heart beats when we leave 
all we love behind us, yet rose with a thrill ajid throb of anticipa- 
tion as he faced again toward the outer universe. Not nine till 
Christmas, and yet already daring adventure and fortune. This 
was the consciousjiess that rose in the little fellow’s bj-east, and 
made his small gray eyes dance with light, as he turned his pony’s 
head towards the Warren, which meant into the world. 

Geotf was very confident that he knew the road. He had gone 
several times with his mother in the carriage direct to the Warren; 
one time in particular, when the route was new to him, — when he 
went clinging to her, as he always did, but she, frozen into silence, 
making no reply to him, leant back in Mrs. Warrender’s little 
brougham, like a mother made of marble. Very clearly the child 
remembered that dreadful drive. But others more cheerful had 
occurred since. He had got to know the Warren which was so 
different from Markland, with those deep old shadowing trees, 
and everything so small and well filled. And they had all been 
kind to Geoff. He liked the ladies more than lie liked Theo. On 
the whole, Geoff found ladies more agreeable than men. His 
father had not left a very tender image in his mind, whereas his 
mother was all the world to the invalid boy. It occurred to him 
that he would get a very warm reception at the Wari-en, whether 
he meant to go to convey to Theo his gracious acceptance of the 
offered lessons; and this gave brightness and pleasure to the ex- 
pedition. But the »’eal object of it was to show kindness which 
his mother had suggested as the only payment Theo would accept. 
Geoff in liis generosity was going to give the price befoi-ehand, to 
intimate his intention of saving Theo trouble by coming to the 
Warren every second day, and generally to propitiate and please 
his new tutor. It was a very important expedition, and after this 
nobody would say that Theo’s kindness was not repaid. 

The pony trotted along very steadily so long as Geoff remem- 
bered to keep his attention to it; and it cantered a little, surpris- 
ing Geoff, when it found the turf under its hoofs, along another 
stretch of sunny road which Geoff turned into without remember- 
ing it, with a thrill of fresh delight in its novelty and in the long 
vista under its overarching boughs. Then he went through the 
wood, making the pony walk, his littl heart all melting Av'ith the 
sweetness and shade as he picked his way across the brook, in 
which the leases lay as in Yalombrosa. The pony liked that 
gentle pace. Perhaps he liad tlioughts of his own which were as 
urgent, yet as idle, as Geoff’s, and like the boy felt the delight of 
the unknown. Any low, he walked along die smooth, level stretch 
of road beyond the wood; and Geoff, upon his hack, made no re- 
monstrance. Pie began to get a iittle confused by the turnings, 
by the landscapes, by the effect of the wide atmosphere and the 
wind blowing in his face. He forgot almost that he was Geoff. 
He was a little boy on his way to fairyland, riding on and on in a 
dream. 


XXI. 


. The pony walked on, sometimes a little quicker, sometimes a 
little slower, while GeofE dreamed. No doubt Pony too had his 
own thoughts. His opinion was that summer had come again. 
He was rather a pampered little pony, who had never been put to 
any common use, who had never felt harness on his back, or a 
weight behind him, or the touch of a whip beyond that of Geoff’s 
little switch ; and he had come so far and had trotted so long that 
he was hot, and did not like it. He had come so far that he no 
longer knew which was the direction of home and the comfortable 
cool stable, for which lie began to puff and sigh. When he came 
to a cross-road he sniffed at it, but never could be sure. The 
scent seemed to lie one time in one way, another time in another. 
Not being able to make sure of the way home, the pony made it 
up to himself in a different direction. He sauntered along, and 
cooled down. He took a pull at the grass, nearly snatching the 
loose reins out of Geoff’s small hands. Then, after having thus 
secured the proper length, he had a tolerable meal, a sort of picnic 
refreshment, not unpleasant; and the grass was very crisp and 
fresh. He began to think that it was for this purpose, to give him 
a little beneficial change of diet, that he had been brought out. 
It was very considerate. Corn is good, and so even is nice, dry, 
sweet-smelling hay. But of all things in the world, there is 
nothing so delightful as the fresh salad with all its juices, the 
sweet grass with the dew upon it, especially when it is past the 
season for grass, and you have been ridden in the sun. 

Geoff’s mind was pleasurably moved in a different way. The 
freedom, the silence, the fresh air, entered into his little being 
like -wine. He had not known much of the delights of solitude. 
A sickly child, who has to be watched continually, and who is 
alone in the sense of having no playmates, no one of his own age 
near him, has less experience than the robust of true aloneness. 
He had been always with his mother, or, in his mother’s brief 


164 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


absences, — so brief that they scarcely told in the story of his life, 
— under the charge of the nurse, who was entirely devoted to him. 
He knew by heart all the stories she had to tell, and yet would 
have them repeated, with a certain pleasure in the sound of the 
words. But his mother, — he never could be sure what she w^as 
going to say. To question her was the chief occupation of his 
life, and she never was weary of replying. Ilis days were full of 
tliis perpetual intercourse. So it happened that to get out alone 
into the absolute stillness, broken only by the rustle of the leaves, 
the sound of the w'ind as it brought them down, the twitter of the 
birds, the tinkle of the little stream, was a new delight to Geoff, 
unlike anything that had gone before. And to see miles and 
miles before him, to see all round him roads stretching into the 
unknown, houses and churches and woods, all nameless and new, 
— was he riding out to seek his fortune, was he going to conquer 
the world, was he the prince riding to the castle where the Sleep- 
ing Beauty lay ? Was he Jack, going on unawares to the 
ogre’s castle, where he w’as to kill the giant and deliver the 
prisoners ? The little boy did not, perhaps, put these questions 
into form, but they were all in his mind, filling him with a vague, 
delicious exhilaration. He was all of these heroes put together, 
and little Geoff Markland beside. He w-as afraid of nothing ; 
partly, perhaps, because of his breeding, which had made it ap- 
parent to him that the world chiefly existed for the purpose of 
taking care of Geoff; and partly from an innate confidence and 
friendliness with all the world. He had no serious doubt that 
ogres, giants, and other unpleasant peoi)le did exist to be over- 
come; but so far as men and w'omen were considered, Geoff had 
no fear of them, and he was aware that even in the castle of the 
ogre these natural aids and auxiliaries were to be found. He 
wandered on, accordingly, quite satisfied with his fancies, until 
the pony gave that first jerk to the reins and began his meal. 
Geoff pulled him up at first— but then began to reflect that ponies 
have their breakfast earlier than boys, and that even he himself 
was beginning to feel that the time for eating had come. “We 
can’t both have luncheon,” said the little man, “ and I think you 
might wait, pony: ’’but he reflected again that, if he could put 
out his hand and reach some bread and butter, he w^ould not him- 
self, at that moment, be restrained by the thought that pony’s 
hunger was unsatisfied. This thought induced him to drop liis 
wrists and leave the pony free. They formed an odd little vignette 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


155 


on the side of the road : the pony, with its head down, selecting 
the juicy spots: the little boy amicably consenting, with his hands 
upon its neck. Geoff, however, to those who did not know that 
he was consenting, and had philosophically made up his mind to 
sanction, in default of luncheon for himself, his pony’s meal, 
looked a somewhat helpless little figure, swayed about by the 
movements of his little steed. And this was how he appeared to 
the occupants of a phaeton which swept past, with two fine bay 
horses, and all their harness glittering and jingling in the sun. 
There was a lady in it, by the driver’s side, and both greeted the 
little boy with a burst of laughter. “ Shall I touch him up for 
you ? the gentleman cried, brandishing his whip over the pony’s 
head. This insult went to Geoff’s soul. He drew himself up out 
of his dreaming, and darted such a glance at the passers-by as 
produced another loud laugh, as they swept past. And he 
plucked the pony’s head from the turf with the same startled 
movement, and surprised the little animal into, a canter of a 
dozen paces or so, enough, at least, he hoped, to show those inso- 
lent people that he could go, when he liked. But after that the 
pony took matters into his own hand. ^ 

It was beginning to be afternoon, which to Geoff meant the de- 
cline of the day, after his two-o’clock dinner. lie had had no 
dinner, poor child, and that afternoon languor which the strongest 
feel, the sense of falling off and running low, was deepened in 
him by unusual emptiness, and that consciousness of wrong which 
a child has who has missed a meal. Pony, after his dinner, had 
a more lively feeling than ever that the stable at home would be 
cool and comfortable, aad, emboldened by so much salad, wanted 
to turn back and risk finding the way. He bolted twice, so that 
all Geoff’s horsemanship and all his strength were necessary to 
bring the little beast round. The little man did it, setting his 
teeth with cliildish rage and determination, digging his heels into 
the fat refractory sides, and holding the reins twisted in his little 
fists with savage tenacity. But a conflict of this sort is very ex- 
hausting, and to force an unreasonable four-footed creature in 
tlie way it does not want to go requires a strain of all the faculties 
which it is not easy to keep up, especially at the age (not all told) 
of nine. Geoff felt the tears coming to his eyes ; he felt that he 
would die of shame if any one saw him, thus almost mastered by 
a pony: yet that he would give anything in the world to see a 
known face, some one who would help him home. Not the phae- 


156 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


ton, though, or that man who had offered to “ touch him up.’* 
When he heard the wheels behind him again Geoff grew, frantic 
He laid his whip about the pony’s neck, with a maddening deter- 
mination not to be laughed at any more. But circumstances 
were too strong for him. The pony made a spring forward, stopped 
suddenly, and Geoff, with a giddy sense of flying through the air, 
horrible consciousness of great hoofs coming down, lost all knowl- 
edge of what was going to happen to him,’ and ended in insensi- 
bility this wild little flight into the unknown. 

It was well for Geoff that some one who had been crossing by, 
at this climax of his little history, saw the impending accident, 
and sprang over the stile into the road at the decisive moment* 
for the driver of the phaeton, with the best will in the world, could 
scarcely have otherwise avoided mischief, though he pulled his 
horses back on their hind quarters in the sudden alarm. Theo 
Warrender flung himself under the very hoofs of the dashing bays. 
He seized the child and flung him out on the edge of the road, but 
was himself knocked dowm, and lay for a moment not knowing 
how much he w'as himself hurt, and paralyzed by terror for the 
boy whom he had recognized in the flash of the catastrophe 
There w'as a whirl of noise, for a moment, loud shrieks from the 
lady, the grinding of the suddenly stopped wheels, the prancing 
and champing of the liorses, the loud exclamations of the man who 
was driving to the groom, wdio sprang out from behind, and to 
his shrieking companion. The groom raised Geoff’s head, and 
laid him on the grass at the roadside, while Warrender crept out 
from the dangerous position he occupied, his lieart sick with 
alarm. “ He’s coming to,” said the groom. “ There is no harm 
done. The gentleman’s more hurt than the boy.” “ There is 
nothing the matter with me,” cried Warrender, though the blood 
was pouring from his forehead, making bubbles in the dust. 
When Geoff opened his eyes he had a vision first of that anxious, 
blood-stained countenance; then of a bearded face in an atmos- 
phere of cigar smoke, w’^hich reminded him strangely, in the dizzi- 
ness of returning consciousness, of his father: wdiile the carriage, 
the impatient bays, the lady looking down from lier high seat, 
w'ere like a picture behind. He could not remember at first what 
it was all about. The bearded man knelt beside him feeling him 
all over. “Does anything hurt you, little chap? Come, that’fl 
brave. I think there’s nothing wrong.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 157 

But look at Theo ! Theo’s all bleeding,” said Geoff, trying t& 
raise himself up. 

“It’s nothing,— a trifle, said Warrender, feeling, though faint, 
angry that the attention of the stranger should be directed to his 
ghastly countenance, lie added, “ Don’t Avait on account of him, 
If you will let your man catch the pony. I’ll take him home.” 

Then the lady screamed from the phaeton that the little darling 
must be given to her, that he was not fit to get on that pony again 
that he must be driven to the village. She called her companion 
to her, w'lio swore by Jove, and plucked at his mustache, and 
consulted wdth the groom, who by some chance knew who the 
Child was. The end of the discussion was that Geoff, to his own 
great surprise, and not Avithout a struggle, Avas lifted to the phaeton 
and placed close to the lady, Avho dreAV him to her, and kept 
him safe within her arm. Geoff looked up at the face that 
bent so closely over him Avith a great deal of curiosity, and min- 
gled attraction and repulsion. In his giddy state, it seemed 
to him another phase of the dream. The sudden elevation, the 
rush of rapid motion, so different from his sIoav and easy pro- 
gress, the tAvo bays dashing through the air, the lady's per- 
fumery and her caresses, all bewildered the boy. Where were 
they taking him ? After all, Avas there really some ogre’s castle, 
some enchanted palace, to Avhich he Avas being swept along without 
any Avill of his ? The little boy w'as disturbed by the kisses and 
caresses of his new friend. He Avas not a shy child; but he felt 
himself too old to be kissed, and a little indignant, and slightly 
alarmed, in the confusion of his shaken frame, as to Avhere he 
was being taken and Avhat was going to happen to him. The 
bays Avere grand and the lady was beautiful ; but as Geoff looked 
at her, holding himself as far away as Avas possible Avithin the 
tight enclosure of her arm, he thought her more like the enchant- 
ress than the good, lovely fairy queen, which had been his first 
idea. She was not like the ogre’s Avife he kiiCAV so Avell,— that 
pathetic, human little person, avIio did what she could to save the 
poor strayed boys; but rather of ogre-kind herself, kissing him as 
if she Avould like to put a tooth in him, Avith loud laughter at his 
shrinking and indisposition to be caressed. Geoff also felt keenly 
the meanness of forsaking Theo, and even the pony, who by this 
time, no doubt, must be very sorry for having thrown him, and 
very much puzzled Iioav to get home. Would the groom (left be- 
hind for the purpose) be able to catch him ? All these things 


158 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


much disturbed Geoff’s thoughts. He paid little attention to the 
promises that were made to him of tea and nice things to eat, 
although he was faint and hungry; feeling not altogether certain, 
in his little confused brain, that he might not, instead of eating, 
be eaten, though he was quite aware at the same time that this 
was nonsense, and could not be. 

But when the phaeton turned in at the gate of the Elms, and 
Geoff saw the high red brick house, surrounded with its walls, like 
a prison, or like the ogre’s castle itself, his perturbation grew to a 
climax. The vague alarm which takes complete possession of a 
child when once aroused in him rose higher and higher in his 
mind. When the lady sprung lightly down, and held out her arms 
to receive him as he alighted, the little fellow made a nervous leap 
clear of lier, and stood shaking and quivering with the effort, on 
his guard, and distrustful of any advance. “Nobody is going 
to harm you, my little fellow,” said the man, kindly enough ; 
while the lady asked why he was frightened, with laughter which 
confused and alarmed him more and more ; for Geoff was accus- 
tomed to be taken seriously, and did not understand being laughed 
at. He wanted to be civil, notwithstanding, and was about to 
follow in-doors, plucking up his courage; when a glance round 
which showed him how high the walls were, and that the gates 
had been closed, and that in the somewhat narrow space inside 
there, was no apparent outlet by which he could communicate with 
the world in which his mother and Theo and everybody he knew 
were left behind— carried a thrill of panic, which he could not 
overcome, through all his being. As he paused, scared and 
frightened, on the threshold, he saw at the further end of 
the enclosure a door standing a little ajar, by which some one 
had entered on foot. Geoff did not pause to think again but made 
for the opening with a sudden start, and, when outside, ran 
like a hunted hare. He ran straight on, seeing houses before 
him where he knew there must be safety, — houses with no high 
walls, cottages such as a small heart trusts in, be it beggar or 
prince. He ran, winged with fear, till ho got as far as Mrs. Bagley’s 
shop. It was not a great distance, but he was unused to violent 
exertion, and his little body and brain were both quivering with 
excitement and with the shock of his fall. The dread of some 
one coming after him, of the house that looked like a prison, of 
the strangeness of the circumstances altogether, subsided at the 
sight of the village street, the church in the distance, the open 


A COUI^TRY GENTLEMAN. 


159 


door of the little shop. All these things were utterly antagonistic 
to ogres, incompatible with enchantresses. Geoff became himself 
again when he reached the familiar and recognizable; and when 
he saw the cakes in Mrs. Bagley’s window, his want of a dinner 
grew into an overpowering consciousness. He stopped himself 
took breath, wiped his little hot forehead, and went in, in a very 
gentlemanly way, taking off his hat, which was dusty and crushed 
with his fall, to the astonished old lady behind the counter. 
“ Would you mind giving me a cake or a biscuit ? ” he said. “ I 
don’t think 1 have any money, but I am going to Mrs. Warrender’s, 
if you will show me where that is, and she will pay for me. But 
don’t do it,” said Geoff, suddenly perceiving that he might be 
taken for an impostor, “if you have any doubt that you will be 
paid.” 

“ Oh, my little gentleman,” cried Mrs. Bagley, “ take whatever 
you please, sir! I’m not a bit afraid; and if you was never to pay 
me, you’re but a child, if 1 may make bold to say so; and as for a 
cake or a — But if you’ll take my advice, sir, a good bit of bread 
and butter would be far more wholesome, and you shall have that 
in a moment ” — 

“ Thank you very much^’’ said Geoff, though he cast longing 
eyes at the cakes, which had the advantage of being ready; “and 
please might I have a chair or a stool to sit down upon, for I am 
very tired ? May I go into that nice room there, while you cut 
the bread and butter ? My mother,” said the boy, with a 
sigh of pleasure, throwing himself down in Mrs. Bagley’s big 
chair, which she dragged out of its corner for him, “ will be 
very much obliged to you when she knows. Yes, I am only a 
child,” he continued, after a moment; “but I never thought i 
was so little till I got far away from home. Will you tell me, 
please, where I am now ? ” 

Mrs. Bagley was greatly impressed by this little personage, who 
looked so small and talked with such imposing self-possession. 
She set down before him a glass of milk with the cream on it, 
which she had intended for her oWn tea, and a great slice of bread 
and butter, which Geoff devoured without further comment. 
“This is Underwood,” she said, “and Mrs. Warrender’s is close 
by, and there’s nobody but will be pleased to show you the way; 
but r do hope, sir, as you have n’t run away from home ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Geoff, with his mouth full of broad and butter, 
“not at all. I only came to see Tbeo,— that is Mr, Warrender’s 


leO ' ^ COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

name, you know. To be sure,” he added, “mamma will not 
know where 1 am, and probably she is very much frightened; that 
is something like running away, isn’t it ? I hope they have caught 
iTiy pony, and then vv'hen 1 have rested a little I can ride home 
Is that a nice house, that tall red house with the wall round it, or 
do they shut up peoi)le there ? ” 

“ Ah, that’s the Elms,” said the old lady, and she gave a glauc 
which Geoff did not understand to the young woman who was 
sitting at work behind. “ I don’t know as folks is ever shut up in 
it,” she said, significantly ; “but don’t you never go there, my 
little gentleman, for it ain’t a nice house.” 

“ The like of him could n’t get no harm. Granny, even if it was 
as bad as you think.” 

“ There is nobody as would n’t get harm, man or woman, or 
even children,” cried Granny, dogmatically. “It was the last place 
poor Ijord Markland was ever in afore his accident, and who 
knows ” — 

Geoff put down his bread and butter. “ That’s ray father,” he 
said. “ Did he know those people ? Perhaps his horses got wild 
escaping from them.” 

“ Mrs. Bagley lifted up her hands in awe and wonder. “ My 
stars: ” she said, “ I thought I had seen him before. Lizzie, it ’s 
the little lord.” 

“ That is what the lady called me,” said Geoff,” “ as if it was my 
fault. Do they set traps there for people who are lords ? ” 


xxn. 


It may be imagined what the sight of Theo all bound up and 
bleeding was to the family in the Warren. He had not' at all the 
look of a benevolent deliverer, suffering sweetly from a wound re- 
ceived in the service of mankind. He had a very pale and angry 
countenance, and snorted indignant breath from his dilated nos- 
trils. “ It’s nothing ; a little water will make it all right,” he an- 
swered to the eager questions of his mother and sisters.' ' “Has the 
brat -got here ? ” 

“ The brat ? What brat ? Oh, Theo ! You’ve been knocked 
down ; your coat is covered with dust. Run for a basin, Chatty, 
and some lint. You look as if you had been fighting, or some, 
thing.” These cries rose from the different voices round him, 
while old Joseph, who had seen from a window the plight in which 
his master was, stood gazing, somewhat cynical and very curious, 
ill the back-ground. The scene was the hall, which has been 
already described, and into which all the rooms opened. 

“ Well,” rejoined Theo angrily, “ I never said I had n’t. 
Where’s the boy ? Little fool I and his mother will be distracted 
Oh, don’t bother me with your bathing. I must go and see after 
the boy.” 

“ liCt me see what is wrong,” pleaded Mrs. Warrender. “ The 
hoy ? Who is it ? Little Markland ? Has he run away ? Oh, 
Theo, have patience a moment. Joseph will run and inquire — 
Minnie will put on her hat ” — 

“ Running don’t suit these legs o’ mine,” grumbled Joseph, 
looking at liis thin shanks. 

“And what am T to put on my hat for ?” cried Minnie. “ Let 
Theo explain. TIow can we tell what he wants if he won’t ex- 
plain ?” 

“ I’ll run,” said Cliatty, who had already brought a basin and 
water, and who flew forth in most illogical readiness, to satisfy her 
brother, although she did not know what lie wanted. Good-will, 
however, is ofteii its own reward, and in this instance it was em- 
phatically so, for Chatty almost ran into a little group advancing 


162 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


through the shrubbery, — Mrs. Bagley, with her best bonnet hastily 
put on, holding little Geoff Markland by the band. The boy was 
in advance, dragging his guardian forward, and Mrs. Bagley 
panted with the effort. “ Oh, Miss Chatty,” she cried, “ I'm so 
thankful to see you ! The little gentleman, he ’s in such a hurry 
The little gentleman ” — 

Geoff let go in a moment the old lady’s hand, nearly throwing 
her off her. balance ; but he was full of his own affairs, as was 
natural. “ It is me,” he said to Chatty. ‘‘ I came to see Theo ; 
bu't I had an accident : and he had an accident. And they wanted 
to take me to that tall house, but I would n’t. Has Theo coine 
back ? and where is pony ? This old lady has to be paid for the 
bread and butter. She was very kind, and took care of me when 
I ran away.” 

“Oh,” cried Chatty, “ did you run away? And Lady Mark- 
land will be so unhappy.” ; 

No one paid any attention to Mrs. Bagley’s declaring that she 
wanted no payment for her bread and butter; and Geoff, very full 
of the importance of the position, hurried Chatty back to the 
house. “ Can I go in ? ” lie said, breathless ; “ and will you send 
me home, and find pony for me ? Oh, here is Theo I Was it the 
horse that tipped you on the head ? ” He came forward with great 
gravity, and watched the bathing of Warrender’s brow, which was 
going on partly against his will. * Geoff approached with out further 
ceremony, and stood by the side of the table, and looked on. 
“ Did he catch you with his forefoot ? ” said the boy. “ I thought 
it was only the hind feet that were dangerous. What a lot of 
blood ! and oh, are they going to cut off your hair ? When I got 
a knock on the head, mamma sent for the doctor for me.” 

“ Dear Theo, be still, and let me do it. How could you get such 
a blow ?” 

“ I will tell you, Mrs. Warrender,” said the little boy, drawing 
closer and closer, and watching everything with his little grave 
face. “ Pony threw me, and the big bays were coining down to 
crush my head. I saw them waving in the air, like that, over me: 
and Theo laid hold of me here and tore me, and they kicked him 
instead.” 

“ What is all this about a pony and the bays ? Theo, tell me.” 

“ He tore me all here, look, in the back of my knickerbockers,” 
said Geoff putting his hand to the place; “ but i’d rather have 
that than a knock on my head. Theo, does it hurt ! Theo, what 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


163 


a lot you have bled ! Were you obliged to tear my knickerbockers? 

I say, Tlieo, the lady was pretty, but I did n’t much like her, after 
all.” 

Theo, though his head was over the basin, put out his hand and 
seized the child by the shoulder. “ What did you run away for, 
you little — Do you know your mother will be wretched about you ? 
— your mother, who is worth a hundred of you.” This was said 
through his teeth, with a twist of Geoff’s shoulder which was 
almost savage. 

“ I say! ” cried the child; then he added, indignantly. ** I 
never ran away ; I came to see you, because you are going to be 
my tutor. I did n’t think it was such a long way. And pony got 
hungry — And so was I.” 

“ Going to be his tutor ! ” It was Minnie’s voice that said this, 
so sharply that the air tingled with the words, and Mrs. Warren- 
der started a little ; but it was not a moment at which any more 
could be said. The bathing was done, and Theo’s wound had now 
to be brought together by plaster and bound up. It was not very 
serious. A hoof had touched him, but that was all, and fortu- 
nately not on a dangerous place 

“ Take him away and give him something to eat,” said the 
patient, but not in a hospitable voice. 

“ I want to see it all done,” said Geoff, pre«^sing closer, “ Is that 
how you do it ? Don’t you want another piece of plaster ? Will 
you have to take it off again, or will it stay till it is all well ? 
Oh, look, that corner is n’t fast. Press it there, a little closer. 
Oh, Theo, she has done it so nicely. You can’t see a bit of the 
bad place. It is all covered with plaster, like that, and then like 
his. I wish now it had been me, just to know how it feels.” 

“ Take him away, mother, for heaven’s sake! ” cried Warrender 
under his breath. 

My dear, you must not worry Theo. He is going to lie down 
now, and be quiet for a little. Go with Minnie, and have something 
to eat.” 

“ I am not so hungry now,” said the boy, “ but very much in- 
terested. When you are interested you don’t feel hun grey : and 
the old woman gave me something to eat. Would you pay her, 
please ? Won’t you tie something on, Mrs. Warrender, to hide 
the plaster ? It does n’t look very nice like that.” 

“ Come,” said Chatty, taking him by the hand. The elder sister 


164 


A {COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


had thrown herself into a chair at tlie mention of the tutor, and 
Seemed unable for further exertion. 

“ Oh, yes, I am coming; but I am most interested about Theo. 
Theo, you have got a stain upon your cheek; and your coat is torn, 
too, as bad as my — Well, but he did tear my knickerbockers. 
Look! 1 felt the cold wind, though I did not say anything; not 
upon the open road, but when we got among your trees. It is so 
dark among your trees. Theo! ” 

“Come, come; 1 want you to come with me,” Chatty said, 
hurrying Geoff away: and perhaps the sight of the table in the 
dining-room, and the tray which Joseph, not without a grumble, 
was placing upon it, became about this time as interesting as 
Theo’s wound. 

“ We ought to send and tell his mother that the child is here.” 

“ Or send him back,” said Minnie sharply, “ and get rid of him. 
A little story-teller! Theo his tutor! If I were his mother, I 
should whip him, till he learned what lies mean! ” 

Mrs. Warrender looked with some anxiety at her son. “-Chil- 
dren,” she said, “make such strange misrepresentations of what 
they hear. But we should send ” — 

“ I have sent already,” said Theo. “She will probably come 
and fetch him — and, mother” — 

“ My dear, keep still, and don’t disturb yourself. There might 
be a little fever.” 

“Oh, rubbish! Fever! I shall not disturb myself, if you don’t 
disturb me. Look here. It is quite true; I’ve offered myself to 
be his tutor.” 

“His tutor!” cried Minnie once more, in a voice which was like 
the report of a pistol. Mrs. Warrender said nothing, but looked 
at him with a boundless pity in her eyes, slightly shaking her head. 

“ Well ! and what have you to say against it ? ” cried Theo, 
facing his sister, with a glow of anger mounting to the face which 
had been almost ghastly with loss of blood. 

“ This is not a moment for discussion. Go and see to the child. 
Theo, my dear boy, if you care so much for Geoff as that — at 
another time you must tell us all about it.” 

“ There is nothing to tell you, save that I have made up my 
mind to it,” he said, looking at her with that prompt defiancy 
which forestalls remark. “ Geoff ! Do you think it is for Geoff ? 
But neither at this time nor at any other time is there more to 
say,” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


165 


He looked at her so severely that Mrs. Warrender’s eyes fell. 
He felt no shame, but pride, in his self-sacrifice, and determination 
to stand by it and uphold his right to make it in the face of all 
Ihe world. But this very determination, and a consciousness of 
all that would be said on the subject, gave Warrender a double 
intolerance in respect to Geoff himself. To inuigine that it was 
for the boy’s sake was, he already felt, an imputation he could 
scarce endure. For the boy’s sake ! The boy would have been 
swept away before now if thought could have done it. From the 
first hour he had been impatient of the boy. The way in which 
he clung to his mother had been a personal offence. And his 
mother ! — ah, no, she could do no wrong. Not even in this matter^ 
which sometimes tortured him, could he blame Lady Markland. 
But that she or any one should imagine for a moment that he 
was ready to sacrifice his time, his independence, so much of his 
life, for. the sake of Geoff ! That was a misconception which 

Warrender could not bear. ‘ Don’t let that little come near 

me,” he said to his mother, as he finally went off, somewhat feebly, 
to the old library, where he could be sure of quiet. “ Make the girls 
take care of him and amuse him. She will probably come and fetch 

him, and I will rest— till then ’’—That little ! Warrender did 

not add any epithet; the adjective was enough. 

“ Till then— till she comes ! Is that all your thought ? ” said his 
mother. “ Oh, my poor boy ! ” 

He met her eyes Avith a pride which scorned concealment. Yes, 
he could own it here, where it would be in vain to deny it. He 
would not disavow the secret of his heart. Mothers have keen 
eyes : but hers were not keen,— they Avere pitying,— more sad than 
tears. She looked at him, and once more softly shook her head. 
The blood had rushed again to his face, dyeing it crimson for a 
moment, and he held his head high as he made his confession* 
“ Yes, mother, that is all my thought.” And then he Avalked aAvay, 
tingling with the first avoAval that had he made to mortal ears. As 
for Mrs. Warrender, she stood looking after him with so mingled 
an expression that only a delicate casuist could have divined the 
meaning in her. She Avas so sorry for him, so proud of him. He 
was so young, not more than a boy, yet man enough to give all his 
heart and his life— to sacrifice everything, ev'en his pride— for the 
sake of the woman he loved. Ilis mother, who had never before 
come within speaking distance of a passion like this, felt her heart 
glow and swell with pride in him, with tender admiration beyond 


166 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


words. She had neither loved nor been loved after this sort ; and 
yet it was no roniaiice of the poets, but had a real existence, and 
was here, here by her side, in this monotonous little world which 
had never been touched by such a presence before. She said to 
herself that it would never come to anything but misery and pain; 
yet eveu misery was better than nothingness, and he who had 
oved had lived. To think that a quiet, middle-aged English- 
woman, a pattern of domestic duty, should think thus, and exult in 
her son’s inconceivable and, as she believed, unhappy passion, is 
almost too much to be credible. Yet so it was. 

Geoff’s absence was not discovered until two o’clock, when Lady 
Marklaiid, at the end of a long and troublesome consultation over 
matters only partially understood, suggested luncheon to her 
man of business. “ Geoff will be waiting and very impatient,’^ 
she said, with a smile. Mr. Longstaffe was not anxious to see Geoff, 
nor disturbed that the little boy’s midday meal should have been 
postponed to business, though this disturbed Geoff’s mother, who 
had been in the habit of thinking his comfort the rule of her life. 
She was much startled not to find h m in the dining-room, and 
to hear that he had not come back. “ Not come back ! and it is 
two o’clock ! But Black will take good care of him,” she said, 
with a forced smile, to Mr. Longstaffe, “and I must not keep you 
waiting.” “If you please, my lady,” said the butler, “Black’s 
not gone with him,” At this Lady Markland stared at the man, 
the color dying out of her face. “ You have let him go out alone I ” 
“ I had nothing to do with it, my lady. The colt’s lame, and 
Black” — “ Oh,” she cried, with impatience, “ don’t talk to me of 
excuses, but go, go, and look for my child !” Then she was told 
that Black had gone some time since, and was scouring all the 
roads about ; that he had come back once, having seen nothing; 
and that now the coachman and gardener were gone, too. From 
this time until the hasty messenger arrived with Theo’s huiried 
note, Lady Markland spent the time in such distraction as only 
mothers know, representing to herself a hundred dangers, which 
reason told her were unlikely, but which imagination, more strong 
than reason, placed again and again before her eyes, till she felt 
a certainty that they were true. All these stories of kidnapping, 
whicli people in their senses laugh at, Lady Markland as much as 
any, being when in her right mind a very sensible woman, came 
before her now as possible, likely, almost certain. And she saw 
Geoff, with his little foot caught in the stirrup, dragged at the 


A COUNTNY GENTLEMAN. 


167 


pony's frightened heels the stones on the road tearing him, his 
head knocking against every obstacle ; and she saw him lying by 
the roadside, white and lifeless. She saw everything that could 
and could not happen, and accused herself for not having sent 
him to school, out of danger, — for not having kept him by her side 
night and day. 

Mr. Longstaffe naturally looked on at this anguish with a mixture 
of contempt and pity. He was not at all alarmed for Geoff. “ The 
young gentleman will have gone to visit one of his friends ; he 
will have gone further than he intended. He may, if he does n’t 
know the country very well, have missed his way : but we don’t 
live in a land of brigands and bandits, my dear lady; somebody 
will be sure to direct him safely back.” He managed to eat his 
luncheon by himself, after she had begged liim not to mind her 
absence, and had left him undisturbed to confide to the butler liis 
regret that Lady Markland should be so much upset, and his con- 
viction that the little boy was quite safe. “ He’ll be all right, sir,” 
the butler said. He is as sharp as a needle, is Mr. Geoff. I did 
ought to say his little lordship, but it’s hard to get into new ways.” 
They said this, each with an indulgent smile at her weakness, in 
Lady Markland’s absence. The lawyer had a great respect for her. 
and the butler venerated his mistress, who was very capable in her 
own house, but they smiled at her womanish exaggeration, all the 
same. 

AVarrender had been quite right in thinking she would come at 
once for Geoff. She had almost harnessed the horses herself, so 
eager was she, and they flew along the country roads at a pace 
very unlike their ordinary calm. Evening had fallen when she 
rushed into the hall at the Warren, in her garden hat, with a 
shawl wrapired about her shoulders, the first she had found. T.er- 
rible recollections of the former occasion when she had been sum- 
moned to this house were in her mind, and it was with a fantastic 
terror which she could scarcely overcome that she found herself 
once more, by the same waning light, in the place where she had 
been sent for to see her husband die. If she had been deceived I 
If the child should be gone like his father! She had not, however, 
a second moment in which to indulge this fancy, for Geoff’s voice, 
somewhat raised, met her ears at once. Geoff was in very great 
feather, seated among the ladies, expounding to them his views 
on things in general. Our trees at Markland are not like your 
trees,” he was saying. “They are just as young as me, mamma 


168 


A COUNTRY GKNTLFAfAN. 


says. When I am as old as you ai-e, or as Theo, perhaps they wfft 
be grown. But 1 shall not like them so big as yours. When Theo 
is my tutor 1 shall tell him what 1 think; it will be a line oppor- 
tunity. Why, mamma!” 

She had him in her arms, kissing and sobbing over him for a 
moment, till she could overcome that hysterical impulse. Theo 
had come from his room at the sound of the wheels, and the party 
were all collected in the drawing room, the door id which stood 
open. There was little light, so that they could scarcely see each 
other, but Minnie had full time to remark ‘With horror that ijady 
Markland did not even wear a widow’s bonnet, or a crape veil, for 
decency, but had on a mere hat , — a straw hat, with a black ribbon 
She put her hand on her heart, in a pang of tliis discovery, but no- 
body else took any notice. And, indeed, in the outburst of the 
poor lady’s thanks and questions, there was no room for any one 
else to speak. 

“ Oh, it was all right,” said Geoff, who was in high excitement, 
the chief spokesman and extremely eager to tell his own story 
before any one could interfere. “1 knew the way quite well. I 
wanted to see Theo, you know, to ask him if he really meant it. 
I wanted to sjjeak to him all by himself; for Theo is never the 
same mamma, when you are there. I knew which turn to take 
as well as any one. I was n’t in a hurry; it was such a nice day. 
But pony was not interested about Theo, like me, and he remem- 
bered that it was dinner-time. That was all about it. And then 
those people in the i)ha3toii gave him a start. It was nothing. I 
just po])ped over his head. There was no danger except that the 
bays might have given me a kick; but horses never kick with their 
forefeet.” 

Here Lady Markland gave a shriek, and clutched her boy again. 
“You fell, Geoff, among the horses’ feet!” 

“ Oh, it did n’t matter, mamma; it did n’t matter a bit. Theo 
caught me, and tore my knickerbockers (but they’re mended now). 
He bled a great deal, and I helped Mrs. Warrender to plaster up 
the cut; but I was n’t hurt, — not a bit; and my knickerbockers ” — 

It was Geoff’s turn now to pause in surprise, for his mother left 
him, and flew to Theo, aiwl, taking his hands, tried to kiss them, 
and, between laughing and crying, said, “God bless you! God 
bless you! You have saved my boy’s life ! ” 

Geoff was confounded by this desertion, by the interruption, by 
the sudden cry. He put his hand up to the place where Warrender’s 
cut was, dimly realizing that it might have been in his own head 
but for Theo. “ Was that what it was ?” he said wajidering and 
unobserved in the midst of the new commotion, which for the 
moment left Geoff altogether, and rose around Warrender, as if 
he had been the hero of the day. 


XXIII. 


They all sat round the table and took their evening meal 
together before Lady Marklaiid went back. It was not a cere- 
monious, grand dinner, as if there had been a party. Old Joseph 
pottered about, and put the dishes on the table, and handed the 
potatoes now and then when they were not wanted, and sometimes 
leaned across between the young ladies to regulate the lamp, ex. 
plaining why as he did so. “Excuse me. Miss Chatty, but it’s a- 
goiiig to smoke,” he said; and in the mean time the family helped 
each other. But Lady Markland was not conscious of the defects in 
the service. She sat by Theo’s side, talking to him, looking at 
him in a kind of soft ecstasy. They had been friends before, but 
it seemed that she had now for the first time discovered what he 
was, and could not conceal her pleasure, her gratitude, her admira 
tion. She made him tell her how it all happened, a dozen times 
over, while the others talked of other things, and poured out her 
thanks, her happiness, her ascription of praise, as if he had been 
more than mortal, devoting herself to him alone. Lady Markland 
had never been the kind of woman w’ho allows herself in society 
to be engrossed by a man. It was entireiy unlike her, unlike her 
character, a new thing. She was quite unconscious of IMinnie’s 
sharp eyes upon her, of the remarks which were being made. All 
she was aware of, in that rapture of safety, after danger and re- 
lief from pain, was Geoff, blinking with eyes half sleepy, half ex- 
cited, by the side of Mrs. Warrender, nothing hurt in him but his 
knickerbockers; and the young man by her side, with the wound 
upon his head, who had saved her child’s life. Theo, for his part, 
was wrapped in a mist of delight for which there was no name. 
He saw only her, thought only of her; and for the first time began 
to imagine what life might be if it should over come to mean a 
state in which this rapture should be permanent, — when she would 
always look at him so, always devote herself, eyes and lips and all 
her being, to make him happy. 

The room lay in darkness beyond the steady light of the Avhite 
lamp, shining on the circle of faces. There was not much con- 


170 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


versation. Minnie was sternly silent, on the watch ; Chatty sym- 
pathetically on the alert, too, though she scarcely knew why, be* 
cause her sister was ; Mrs. Warrender listening with a faint smile 
to Geoff’s little chatter, occasionally casting a glance at the other 
end of the table, which she could see but imperfectly. Lady 
Markland spoke low, addressing Theo only, so that Geoff, as be- 
fore, held the chief place. He was never weary of going over the 
adventures of the day. 

“It is that tall house before you come to the village, — a tall, tall 
house, with a wall all round, as if to keep pidsoners in. I know 
there are no prisoners now. Of course not ! There are people 
all about in the fields and everywhere, who would soon tell the 
policeman and set you free. I was not afraid. Still, if the gates 
had been shut, and they refused to open, I don’t know what one 
would do. The lady was like a picture in the Pilgrim’s Progress, 
— that one, you know. I thought her pretty at first. But then 
she held me in her arm as if I had been a baby.” 

“Oh, if would be Those People !” said Minnie, moved to a 
passing exclamation of horror. 

“ Never mind that now. You must not venture out again with- 
out the groom, for it makes your mother unhappy. Theo,” said 
Mrs. AVarrender, with a smile and a sigh, “ when he was a little 
fellow like you, never did anything to make me unhappy.” 

“Did n’t he?” said Geoff seriously. “But I did n’t know. 
How could I tell pony would so soon get hungry ? — He has n’t a 
regular dinner-time, as we have ; only munches and munches all 
day. But 1 was telling you about the tall house * 

You must tell me another time, Geoff. , Theo must bring you 
back with him sometimes for a holiday.” 

“Yes,” said Geoff, “that would do better. Pony w'Diild go 
splendid by the side of Theo’s big black. I shall come often. 
When I do my lessons well — I have never done any lessons except 
with mamma. Does Theo like teaching boys ?’’ 

“ 1 don’t know, my dear. I don’t think he has ever tried.” 

“ Then why is he coming to teach me ? That, at the very bot- 
tom of it, you know, is what I wanted him to tell me ; for he 
would not tell straight out, the real truth, before mamma.” 

“ I hope he always tells the real truth,” said Mrs. Warrender 
gently. “I suppose, my little Geoff, it is because he is fond of 
you.” 

Upon this Geoff shook his little head for a long time, twisting 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


171 


his face and blinking his keen little eyes. “ He is not fond of me 
— oh no, it is not that. I can do with Theo very well — as well as 
with any one ; but he is not fond of me.” 

“ I am glad to hear that you can do with Theo,” said the 
mother, amused. * 

“ Yes. I don’t mind him at all : but he is not fond of me; and 
he is sure not to teach mamma’s way, and that is the only way I ’ 
know. If he were to want to punish me, Mrs. Warrender - 

“ I hope, my dear, there will be no question of that.” 

** I should n’t mind,” said the boy, “ but mamma would n’t like 
it. It might be very awkward for Theo. You are flogged when 
you go to school, are' n’t you? At least, all the books say so. 
Mamma,” he went on, raising his voice, “ here is a difficulty, — a 
great diflBiculty. If Theo should want to flog me, what should you 
do?” 

Lady Markland did not hear him for the moment. She was 
absorbed I — this was the remark made by Minnie, who watched 
with the intensest observation. Then Geoff, in defiance of good 
manners, drummed on the table to attract his mother’s attention, 
and elevated his voice : “ Can’t you hear what I ’m saying, mam 
ma ? If I were to be stupid with my lessons, and Theo were to 
flog me — lit is only putting a case, for I am not stupid,” he added, 
for Mrs. Warrender’s instruction, in an undertone.) 

‘ You must not suggest anything so dreadful,” said Lady 
Markland from the other and of^the table. “ But now you must 
thank Mrs. Warrender, Geoff, and Mr. Theo, and everyone; for 
the carriage has come round, and it is growing late, and we must 
go away.” 

Then Mrs. Warrender rose, as in duty bound, and the whole 
party with her. “ 1 will not ask you to stay ; it is late for him, 
and he has had too much excitement,” said the mistress of the 
house. 

” And to think I might never have taken him home at all, 
never heard his voice again, but for your dear son, your good 
son ! ” cried Lady Markland, taking both Mrs. Warrender’s hands 
putting forward her head, with its smooth silken locks in which 
the light shone, and the soft round of her pplifted face to the 
elder woman, with an emotion and tenderness which w'ent to 
Mrs. Warrender’s heart. She gave the necessary kiss, but though 
she was touched there was no enthusiasm in her reply. 


172 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


** You. must not think too much of that, Lady Markland. 1 hop4 
he would have done it for any child in danger.” 

This, of course, is always perfectly true; but it chills the effu 
Sion of individual gratitude. Lady Markland raised her head, but 
she still keld Mrs. Warrender’s hands. “ I wish,” she said, “ oh, 
I wish you would tell me frankly! Does it vex you that he should 
be so good to me ? This kind, kind offer about Geoff, — is it too 
much ? Yes, *yes, 1 know it is too much; but how can I refuse 
what he is so good, so charitable, as to offer, when it is such a 
boon to us ? Oh, if you would tell me ! Is it displeasing, is it 
distasteful to you ? ’’ 

“ I don’t know how to answer you,” Mrs. Warrender said. 

“Ah! but that is an answer. Dear Mrs. Warrender, help me 
to refuse it without wounding his feelings. I have always felt it 
was too much.” 

“ Lady Markland, I cannot interfere. He is old enough to judge 
for himself. He will not accept guidance from me, — ah, nor from 
you either, except in one way.” She returned the pressure of her 
visitor’s hand, which had relaxed, with one that was as significant. 
“It is not so easy to lay spirits when they are once raised,” she 
said. * 

Lady Markland gave her a sudden, alarmed, inquiring look; but 
Theo came forward at that moment with her cloak, and nothing 
could be said more. 

When the visitors were gone he came back into the dining-room, 
expectant, defiant, fire in all his A^eins, and in his heart a sea of 
agitated bliss that had to get an outlet somewhere; not in a litany 
to her, for which there was no place, but at least in defence of her 
and of himself. It was Minnie, as usual, who stood ready to 
throw doAvn the glove; Chatty being no more than a deeply inter- 
ested spectator, and the mother drawing aside from the fray with 
that sense of sympathy which silences remonstrance. Besides, 
Mrs. Warrender did not know, in the responsive excitement in 
herself which Theo’s passion called forth, wdiether she wished to 
remonstrate or to put any hindrance in his way. 

“Well, upon my word!” said Minnie, “Mrs. Wilberforce may 
w'ell say the Avorld is coming to a pretty pass. Only six months a 
widow, and not a bit of crape upon her! I knew she wore no cap. 
Cap ! why, she has n’t even a bonnet, nor a veil, nor anything! 
A little bit of a hat, with a black ribbon, — too light for me to 
wear; even Chatty would be ashamed to be seen ” 


A COUNTIiY GENTLEMAN. 173 

“ Oil, no, Minnie ; in the garden, you knov/, we have never worn 
anything deeper.-’ 

‘*Do you call this the garden ? ” cried Minnie, her voice so deep 
with alarm and presentinient that it sounded bass, in the silence 
of the night. “ Six miles off, and an open carriage, and coming 
among people who are themselves in mourning ! It ought to have 
given her a lesson to see my mother in her cap.” 

“ If you have nothing better to do than to find fault with Lady 
Markla,nd” — said Theo, pale with passion. 

“ Oh, cried Minnie, “don’t suppose I am going to speak about 
Lady Markland to you. How can you be so infatuated, Theo ? 
You a tutor, — you that have always been made such a fuss with, 
as if there was not such another in the world I What was it all 
he was to be ? A first class and a Fellow, and I don’t know what ? 
Hut a tutor to a small boy, tutor to a little lord, — a sort of a valet, 
or a sort of nurse ” — 

“ Minnie ! your brother is at an age when he must choose for 
himself.” 

“ How much are you to have for it ? ” she cried, — “how much a 
year ? Or are you to be paid with presents, or only with the credit 
of the connection ? Oh, I am glad poor papa is dead, not to hear 
of it. He would have known what to think of it all. He would 
have given you his opinion of a woman — of a woman.” — 

“ Lady Markland is a very nice woman,” said Chatty. “Oh, 
Theo, don’t look as if you were going to strike her! She does’nt 
know what she is saying. She has lost her temper. It is just 
Minnie’s way.” 

“Of a woman who wears no crape for her husband !” cried 
Minnie, with an effort in her bass voice. 

Theo, who liad looked, indeed, as if he might have knocked his 
sister down, here burst into an angry peal of laughter, which rang 
through the house; and his mother, seizing the opportunity, took 
him by the arm and drew him away, “ Don’t take any notice,” 
she said. * You must not forget she is your sister, whatever slie 
says. And, my dear boy, though Minnie exaggerates, she has 
reason on her side, from her point of view. No, I don’t think as 
she does, altogether; but, Theo, can’t you understand that it is a 
disappointment to us ? We always made so surg you were going 
to do some great thing.” 

“ And to be of a little real use, once in a ^a]jr, is such a small 
thing 1 ” 


174 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


“ Oh, Theo, you must be reasonable, and think a little. It does 
not want a scholar like you to teach little Geoff.” 

“ A scholar — like me. How do you know I am a scholar at all ? ” 
Mrs. Warrender knew that no answer to this was necessary, and 
did not attempt it. She went on: “And you are not in a position 
to want such employment. Don’t you see that everybody will 
begin to inquire what your inducement is ? For a young man who 
has nothing, it is all quite natural ; but Theo, have you evef 
asked yourself how you are to be repaid ? ” 

“You are as bad as Minnie, mother,” he said, with scorn; 
“ you think I want to be repaid.” 

She clasped her hands upon his arm, looking up at him with a 
sort of pitying pride. “ She must think of it, Theo, — everybody 
must think of it; ah yes, and even yourself, at the last. Every 
mortal, everybody that is human, — oh, Theo, the most generous 1 
looks for something, something in return.” 

The young man tried to speak, but his voice died away after he 
had said “ Mother! ” To this he had no reply. 

But though ho could not answer the objection, he could put it 
aside; and as a matter of course he had his way. At the begin- 
ning of a thing, however apparent it may be that the embarrass- 
ment is involved, few people are clear-sighted enough to perceive 
how great the embarrassment may come to be. Lady Markland 
was not wiser than her kind. She spoke of Theo’s kindness in a 
rapture of gratitude, and ended always by saying that after all 
this was nothing in comparison with the fact that he had begun 
by saving the boy’s life. “ I owe my child to him,” she said, — “ I 
owe him Geoff’s life; and now it almost seems natural, when he 
has done so much, that he should do anything that his kind heart 
prompts.” She would say this with tears in her eyes, with such 
an enthusiasm of gratitude that everybody was touched who heard 
her. Bui then, everybody did not hear Lady Markland’s account 
of the matter; and the common mass, the spectators who observe 
such domestic dramas with always a lively desire to get as much 
amusement as possible out of them, made remarks of a different 
kind. The men thought that Warrender was a fool, but that the 
widow was consoling herself; the ladies said that it was sad to see 
a young man so infatuated, but that Lady Markland could not live 
without an adviser; and there were some, even, who began to 
lament “iK)or dear young Markland,” as if he had been an injured 
saint. The people who heard least of these universal comments 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


175 


were, however, the persons most concerned ; Lady Markland, be- 
cause she saw few people, and disarmed, as has been said, those 
whom she did see; and Warrender, because he was not the sort 
of man, young though he was, whom other men cared to approach 
with uncalled-for-advice There was but one person, indeed, 
after his sister, who lifted up a faithful testimony to Theo. Mrs. 
VVilberforce, as his parish clergyman’s wife, felt that, if the rector 
would not do it, it was her duty to speak. She took advantage of 
the opportunity one evening after Christmas, when Warrender 
was ’ dining at the rectory. “ Are you still going to Markland 
every day ” she said. “ Is n’t it a great tie ? I should think by 
the time you have ridden there and back you can’t have much 
time for any business of your own.” 

“ It is a good thing, then,” said Theo, “ that I have so little 
business of my own.” 

” You say so,” said the rector’s wife, “ but most gentlemen make 
fuss enough about it, I am sure. There seems always something 
to be doing when you have an estate in your hands. And now 
that you are a magistrate — though I know you did not go to 
Quarter Sessions,’’ she said severely. 

“ There are always enough of men who like to play at law 
without me.” 

“ Oh, Theo, how can you speak so ? wdien it is one of a gentle- 
man’s highestf unctions, as everybody knows I And then there 
are the improvements. So much was to be done. The girls could 
talk of nothing else. They were in a panic about their trees. 
There is no stauncher conservative than I am,” said Mrs. Wilber- 
force, “ but I do think Minnie went too far. She would have every- 
thing remain exactly as it is. Now I can’t help seeing that those 
trees— But you have no time to think of trees or anything else.” 
she added briskly, fixing upon him her keen eyes. 

1 confess,” said Theo, “ I never thought of the trees from a 
political point of view.” 

' “There, that is just like a man!” cried Mrs. Wilberforce, 
* You seize upon something one say that can be turned into ridi- 
cule; but you never will meet the real question. Oh, is that you, 
Herbert ? Have you got rid of your churchwarden so soon ? 
for this was the pretext upon which the rector had been got out 
of the way. 

“ He did not want much,— a mere question. Indeed,” said the 
rector— remembering that fibs are not permitted to clergy any 


176 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


more than to the mere laic, and perceiving that he must expect 
his punishment all the same, with that courage which springs 
from the conviction that it is as well to be hanged for a sheep as 
for a lamb — “it was not the churclmarden at all; it was only a 
mistake of John.” 

“ Well,” said liis wife significantly, “ it was a mistake that was 
quickly rectified, one can see, as you have come back so soon. 
And here is Theo talking already of going home. Of course he 
has his lessons to prepare for to-morrow ; he is not a mere idle 
gentleman now.” 

Little gibes and allusions like these rained upon the young man 
from all quarters during the first six months, but no one ventured 
to speak to him with the faithfulness used by Mrs Wilberforce 
and after a time even these Irritating if not very harmful weapons 
dropped, and the whole matter sank into the region of the ordi- 
nary. He rode, or, if the weather was bad, drove, five days in the 
week to his little pupil, who in himself was not to Theo’s mind 
an attractive pupil, and who kept the temper of the tutor on a 
constant strain. It ought, according to all moral rules, to have 
been very good for Warrender to be thus forced to self-control, 
and to exercise a continual restraint over his extremely impatient 
temper and fastidious, almost crpricious temperament. But there 
are circumstances in which such self-restraint is rather an aggra- 
vating than a softening process. During this period, however, 
Theo was scarcely to be accounted for by the usual rules of human 
nature. His mind was altogether absorbed by one of the most 
powerful influences of human life. He was carried away by a 
tide of passion which was stronger than life itself. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


It may be necessary to indicate the outline, at least, of an 
incident which was the reason why, at the most critical period of 
the affairs both of her brother and sister, Minnie’s supervising 
and controling care was neutralized. Whether it is the case that 
nothing that did happen |||| uld have happened, as is her sincere 
conviction, had she been free to observe and guide the course of 
events, is what neither the writer of this history nor any other 
human looker-on can say. We are all disposed to believe that 
certain possibilities would have changed the entire face of history 
had they ever developed, and that life would have been a different 
thing altogether had not So and So got ill, or gone on a journey, 
or even been so ill-advised as to die at a particular juncture. Miss 
Warrender was of this opinion strongly; but it is possible that the 
reader may think tliat everything would have gone on very mucli 
as it did. in spite of all that she could have said or doin'. It is a 
problem which never can be settled, should we continue discussing 
it forevermore. 

The thing which deprived the family of Minnie’s care at the 
approaching crisis was wliat cannot be otherwise described than 
as a happy event. In the early summer, before Mr. Warrender 
died, a new curate had come to Underwood. This, however, is 
not an entirely just w'ay of stating the case. A curate, in the 
ordinary sense of the word, was not wanted at Underwood. The 
parish was small. Such a thing as a daily service had not begun 
to be thought of, and the rector, who was full of energy, would 
have thought it wasteful extravagance to give a hundred pounds 
a year to another clergyman, in order that he might liave the les- 
sons read for him and the responses led by an educated voice. 
Ideas about educated voices, as well as about colored cloths and 
lights on tlie altar, liave all developed since that time. People in 
general were quite satisfied with the clerk in those days, or, if they 


178 


.4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


were not satisfied, at least accepted him as a necessary evil, at 
which they were free to laugh, but against which there was noth- 
ing to be said. The morning service on Sunday was the only ono 
that was of much importance, to which the whole parish came. 
That in the afternoon was attended only by the village peojile, 
and did not count for much. The rector would not have said in 
so many words, like a French cure", that vespers' was pas ohli~ 
galoire, but he had the same feeling. Both he and his wife felt 
kindly to the people avIio came, as if it were a personal compli- 
ment. It is needless to say that things ecclesiastical have very, 
very much changed since, and that this easy state of affairs exists 
no longer. 

Thus there "was evidently no need of a curate at Underwood 
proper. But the parish was now a double one. Once St. 
Mary’s-Underwood,” it was now “ Underwood-cum-Pierrepoint; ” 
and the condition of drawing the revenues of the later division 
was that the rector should always provide for the duty in the little 
church at Pierrepoint, which was considered a fine specimen of 
early architecture, though not iiiiuch adapted to modern needs. 
It had been usually some shabby old parson, some poor gentle^ 
man who had been a failure in life, and one of those wonderful 
curates who are rich in nothing but children, and to whom the 
old, rambling, out-at-elbows parsonage house at Pierrepoint was 
of itself an attraction, who had taken this .appointment. And it 
had been a great surprise to the neighborhood when it was known 
that the Honorable and Reverend Eustace Thynne (to say the 
Reverend the Honorable, which is now the highest fashion in such 
matters, postponing, as is meet, secular rank to that of the Church, 
was unknown in thos^' pre-Ritualistic days), a young man, a 
baron’s son, an entirely unexceptionable and indeed every way 
laudable individual, had accepted this post. A greater surprise 
it would be impossible to imagine. The Warrenders had been as 
much interested as anybody before the death in the family had 
made such sentiments for a time inappropriate. But Mr. Thynne 
liad turned out a very sympathetic young clergyman. He had left 
his card and kind inquiries at once. He had helped to officiate at 
the funeral, and afterwards ISIinnie had been heard to say that no 
one had given her so true an idea of how grief ought to be borne. 
He had been a frequent visitor through the summer. If Theo 
saw little of him, that was entirely Theo’s fault. It was Mr. 
Thynne who persuaded the girls that to resume their duties inthe 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


179 


Sunday-school was not only right, but the best thing for them,— 
so sootlhng and comforting; and he had come a great deal to the 
Warren while Theo was so much away, and in many things had 
made himself useful to the girls, as Theo had been doing to Lady 
Markland. He did not, indeed, devote himself to them with the 
same indiscriminate devotion. There was no occasion for any- 
thing of the kind. Mrs. Warrender was quite capable of looking 
after things herself, and Minnie’s energy was almost greater than 
was necessary for the needs of their position; so that it was not 
at all needful or desirable that he should put himself at their dis- 
posal in any exaggerated way. But all that a man and a clergy- 
man could do to make himself useful and agreeable Eustace 
Thynne did. They got to talk of him as Eustace Thynne quite 
naturally, when they were talking of him, though they still called 
him Mr. Thynne when conversing with him. They saw a great 
deal of him. There was very little to do at Pierrepoint, and he 
\\as a great walker, and constantly met them when they were out. 
And he was very sound in his views, not extreme in anything; 
not an evangelical, much less inclining towards that section of 
the Church which began to be known in the world under the name 
of Puseyites. Eustace Thynne had not exaggerated ideas ; he was 
not eccentric in anything. The Thirty-Nine Articles sat as easily 
upon him as his very well made coat; he never forgot that he. was a 
clergyman, or Avore even a gray checked necktie, which the rector 
sometimes did, but always had a wdiite tie, very neatly tied, and 
a tall hat, which Avas considered in those days the proper dress for 
a clergyman, even in the country. His political ideas inclined to 
conservatism, Avhereas, as Minnie ahvaj^s said, the Warrenders 
Avere liberal; but it Avas a very moderate conservatism, and the 
difference was scarcely appreciable. 

From all this it may be divined that Minnie was in the way of 
folloAving the example set her by her mother and grandmother, 
and the majority of Avomen generally. She had not thought her- 
self very likely to marry for some time back ; for the country had 
wonderfully feAv young men in it, and she had no desire eA'er to 
leave home. But when Providence sent Eustace Thynne in her 
Avay, there Av^as no reason why she should shut her eyes to that 
divine and benevolent intention. She softened in some ways, but 
liardened in others, during the course of the year. In matters 
upon Avhich Eustace Thynne agreed Avilh her, — and these were 
the principal features of her social creed, — she was more deter- 


180 


A COmrRY GENTLEMAN. 


mined than ever, having liis moral support to fall back upon, and 
would not allow the possibility of a doubt. And tliis made her 
the more severe upon Tlieo, for in all questions of propriety Mr. 
Thynne was with her, heart and soul. 

As usually happens in the forming of new bonds, the old ones 
were a little strained while this process was going on. Chatty, 
who had been very deeply interested at first, when she saw in her 
elder sister symptoms of a state about which she herself had en- 
tertained only the vaguest dreatns, became sometimes a little 
tired of it, as she fouml one of the results to be a growing inclina- 
tion to get rid of herself. When they went out together to vi:.it 
a pensioner, if they met Mr. Thynne (as they often did) on the 
road, Minnie would stop at the end of the lane. “ Will you just 
run in and see how old Sarah is ? ” she would say to Chatty. 
“ Two of us in such a little place is too much for the poor old 
dear; ” and Mr. Thynne would remark, in a low voice, that Miss 
Warrender was so considerate (if everybody would be as consider- 
ate!), and linger and talk, while Chatty went and inforimul her- 
self about all old Sarah’s ills. This, however, the younger sister 
could have borne; but when she found, on rejoining the pair, 
that they had been d’senssing Theo, and that Minnie had been 
asking Mr. Thynne’s advice, and tliat he entirely agreed with 
her, and thought she was quite right about Lady INIarkland, 
Chatty’s spirit rose. “ I would not talk about Theo to any one,” 
she said, indignantly. “ Who do you call any one ? Mr. Thynne 
takes a great interest in all of us: and he is a clergyman, and of 
whom should one ask advice if not of a clergyman ? ” Minnie re- 
plied, with triumphant logic. “If he was a bisliop, I would not 
talk over Theo — not with him, nor any one,” Cha-tf.y replied. She 
had always been inclined to ta’ce Theo’s part, a id slie bec.ame his 
partisan in these new circumstances, standing up for liiTu through 
thick and thin. And in her little crtpcMlitions up and down the 
lane to ask after old Sarah, while Minnie strolled slowly alone 
with her clerical lover. Chatty began to form little opinions of her 
own, and to free herself more or less from that jmeponderating in- 
fluence of the elder sister which had shaped all her previous life. 
And little wistfulnesses began to float across Chatty’s gentle mind, 
and little thrills of curiosity to go through it. Her surroundings 
at this moment gave much room for thought,— Minnie, who had 
never shown any patience in respect to such vanity, and was al- 
ways severe with the maids and their young men, wandering on 


181 


A COUNTnY GENTLEMAN. 

* 

ahead with Mr. Thynue ; and Theo, who had always been so im- 
perious, given up in every thought to Lady Markland, and not to 
be spoken to on ordinary subjects during the short time he spent 
at liome! With tliese two before her eyes, it can scarcely be sup- 
posed that Chatty did not ask herself, now and then, whether, for 
her also, there was notsojnebody whose appearance would change 
everything. And for the first time she began to get impatient of 
the Warren, in the gloom of the winter, and to wish, like her 
mother, for a change. 

Mr. Thynne was not ineligible, like most curates. It was not 
for poverty, or because he had no other place to turn to, that he 
had taken the curacy at Pierrepoint, There was a family living 
awaiting him, a very good living; and he had some money, which 
an uncle had left him; and he was the honorable as well as the 
reverend. Minnie had her own ideas, as has been seen, on mat- 
ters of rank. She did not think overmuch of the nobility. She 
was of opinion that the country gentry were the support and salva- 
tion of England. Still, while a plain Mrs. or Miss may be any- 
body to those who don’t know her, — a dairyman’s daughter or a 
scion of the oldest of families,— an honorable to your name does ^ 
at once identify you as occupying a certain position. “It is h 
very good thing,” she said, “ in that way; it is a sort of hall-mark, 
you know.” 

“ It is sometimes put on very false metal, Minnie.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Minnie, with an indignant flush; 
“no more than any other kind of distinction. The peerage does 
not go wrong oftener, — perhaps not so often as other people, 
but it does give a cachet. It is known then whom you belong to, 
and that you must be more or less nice people. 1 like it for that.” 

“ There could be no doubt about Mr. Thynne, any way, my 
dear.” 

“ I never said I was thinking of Mr. Thynne,” said Minnie, 
with a violent blush, as she broke off the conversation and hurned 
away. And, Indeed, it was not at all of Mr. Thynim that she was 
thinking, but rather of a possible Mrs. Thynne, and what her ad- 
vantages might be over other ladies who did not possess that pretty 
and harmless affi.K. She decided that, unquestionably, it was an 
advantage. Out of your own county it might very well happen 
that nobodv might know who you were: but an honorable ne\ei 
could be mistaken. She came gradually to change her views 
about the peerage in general, after that discovery, and made up 


182 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

her mind that a title in the famil}’^ was good in every way. There 
could never be any doubt about that. Then it was in Debrett, 
and everybody could satisfy themselves about its genuineness and 
antiquity, and lay their finger upon the descendants and relatives 
of the house. There were inconveniences in that, especially in 
respect to the record of age — but still it was an advantage ; and, 
to be sure, for those wIk) were added to a noble family by marriage 
even that inconvenience did not exist. 

Mr. Thynne declared himself in summer, after the year of 
mourning was over, and when even Miss Warrender felt tliat it 
was permitted to be morel vely, and to wear white dresses, though 
with black ribbons, of course; and as the family living fell vacant 
immediately, the wedding took place almost at once. ]t made a 
great sensation in the parish, it need not be said; and while 
the few people in Pierrepoint gave the curate a teapot, i)i Under- 
wood there was a great agitation in the Sunday-scln cl and innch 
collecting to buy a fine big Bible, with a great deal of gliding out* 
side, for Miss Warrender, which was given to lier at a lea in the 
school-room, witli a spe?ch from the rector, who was not fond of 
public speaking, and had to be egged up to it by many prides and 
goails by his wife. It was considered a very suitable present for 
a young lady who was going to marry a clergyman, just as the 
teapot was most suitable for a young clergyman about to be mar- 
ried. In those days there was not the rain of marriage presents from 
everybody within reach which is the painful fashion now. 

And Minnie had a very excellent, solid trousseau, as might be 
expected, full of useful clothes; the s Iks very handsome, and the 
dinner dresses, though serious (which she thought suitable to a 
clergytnan’s wife), quite good enough to go amjwhere in. If she 
had been yielded to Iti that respect, her going-away dress would 
have been lavender with black lace, quite second mourning. But 
not only her mother and sister, but :Mrs. Wilberfqrce and even Mr. 
Ihynne himself, who did not fancy a bride in mourning, remon- 
strated so strongly that she was obliged to } ield. “ I am in favor 
of showing every respect to our dear ones who are gone; but there 
are limits,” the bridegroom said: and Mrs. Wilberforce declared 
that, thougli herself a conservative and staunch upholder of the 
past, she did think dear Minnie sometimes went a little too far, 
notwithstanding that the Warrenders were liberals. This deter- 
mined stand on the part of all belonging to her resulted in Minnie’s 
departure fiom the Warren clothed in a suit of russet br(>wn,\vhie’n 


A CO uy Tu Y ci:y tleman. 


183 


was very becoming to lier, — much more so than the v/hitcness of 
her bridal dress and veil. 

These events withdrew Minnie’s attention in great measure 
from the others which were preparing, and finally carried her off 
altogether on the eve of many and great changes, such as turned 
topsy-turvy the life of the Warrenders. She was naturally very 
much taken up by her husband and her new surroundings, and 
the delightful trouble of settling down in her new parish and 
hojne. And she was at a considerable distance from them, half a 
day’s journey, which made very freciuent visits impossible. It 
has been already said that we do not pretend to give our opinion 
as to whether, if Minnie had not married, things might not have 
gone very differently in the Warrender fatiiily life. 

After the \vedding guests had departed, ‘Warrender ordered his 
horse to be brought round, as usual. He had, of course, been 
occupied all the morning with h s own family, and with the mar- 
riage and the entertainment afterwards. Geoff had got a holiday, 
which he prized very much. (Lady Markland and the boy had 
been asked, of course, to the wedding, but it was peihaps a i-elief 
to all that they declined to come.) And if there ever was a moment 
in which Mrs. Warrender wanted her son, it was that day. She 
was tired out, and in the nervous stale to which the best of us are 
liable at agitating mements. Minnie was not, perhaps, in absolute 
sympathy with her mother, but Mrs. Warrender had a great deal 
of imagination, and partly by means of those recollections of the 
past that are called up by every great family event, and partly by 
inevitable anticipations of the future, she was in special need of 
kindness and filial care. Her heart swelled within her when she 
saw the black horse brought round. She went to the door in Iho 
gray gown which she ha.d got for Minnie’s marriage, and met her 
son as he came into the hall. Oh, Theo, are you going to leave 
us to-day ? I thought you would have stayed with its lo-day,” she 
said, with what an unfavorable ci’itic would have called a querulous 
tone in her voice. It was in reality fatigue and weariness, and a 
great desire for her boy’s affection and comforting care; but the 
other explanation would not perhaps have been altogether with- 
out justification. 

“Why should I stay to-day, more than any other day?” he 
said. 

“You don’t require mo to tell you, Theo. It is getting late; 
you can’t be wanted there, surely, to-day.” 


184 


A COUNTEY GENTLEMAN 


/ 

Now this was injudicious on Mrs. Warrender’s part: bu^ a ^ 
woman cannot always be judicious. ) Ue looked at her with quick' 
offence. 

Suppose 1 think differently ? ’’ he said; “ or suppose that it is 
for my own pleasure 1 am going, as you say, there f ” 

“ I meant no harm,” said Mrs. Warrender. I have not op- 
posed you. Often I have longed to have you a little more at home: 
but I never said anything, Tlieo. — you know 1 have never said 
anything.” 

“ I can’t imagine, mother, what there was to say.” 

She checked herself with difficulty, but still she did check her- 
self. ” There are some things,” she said, ” that I wish you would 
attend to, — 1 cannot he!]) feeling that there are several things: but 
to-day, dear Theo, both Cdiatty and 1 are feeling low. Stay with 
us this afternoon. It will do us so much good.” 

She thought that he wavered for an instant, but if so it was only 
for an instant. “ I don’t believe that,” he said. “ We should only 
quarrel; and what is the use of a thing that is forced ! Anl be- 
sides. of all days, this is the one above all others that 1 want to go. 

It is my best chance ’’—and then he stopped and looked at her, 
the color rising to his face. 

“ I thought Geoff was to go somewhere, for a holiday.” 

lie gave her another look, and the red became crimson. “ That 
is just the rea.son,” he said enigmatically, and with a slight wa-^? 
of his hand passed her, and went out to the door. 

‘‘You will be back to dinner, Theo ?” 

He turned his bead as was about to ride away, looking dov:: 
upon her. “ Perhaps I may be back immediately,” he said,— 

“ most likely; but never mind m% one way or another. I want 
nothing but to be let alone, please.” 

Chatty bad come out to the door, and they both stood and 
w^atcbeci him as he rode along, disappearing among the trees. ” [ 
tliink he must be going to— seek his fortune,” his mother said, 
restraining a sob. 

” Oh, niamina! ” said simple Chatty, “ I would go and pray for 
him, but I don’t know what to ask," 

“Nor I,” said Mr. Warrender. “God bless him, — that is all 
that one can say.” 

But the bouse looked very dreary as they Avent back to it, Avith 
all the confusion of the Avedding hast and the signs of a great 
company departed. They scarcely kncAV Avhere to sit down, amid 
the liner tliat had been so gay a few hours ago, and looked so 
miserable noAV..- 

But Theo! What was he doing? Where av as he carrying the 
heart that beat so bigh. that Avould be silent no longer? Was he 
going to lay it at the feet of a woman Avho Avould spurn it ? When 
Avoiild he come hack, and hoAV ? Already they began to listen, 
though he bad scarcely sot out. for the sound of his return — in 
joy or in despair, Avho could say ? 


CHAPTER XXV. 


t 


Theo came home neither late nor early; neither in joy nor in 
despair. He came back harassed and impatient, eaten up with 
disquietude and suspense. He was pale and red in succession 
ten times in a moment. He was so much absorbed in his own 
thoughts that he hardly heard what was said to him as the three 
sat down, a little forlorn, to dinner when the late summer twilight 
began to close over all the brightn(?ss of that long, fatiguing day. 
The night after the wedding, with its sense already of remoteness 
to the great event of the morning so much prepared for and looked 
forward to, with the atmosphere so dead and preternaturally silent 
which has tingled with so mu h emotion, with the inevitable re- 
action after tlie excitement, — nothing could ever make tliat mo- 
ment a cheerful one. It is something more than the disappearance 
of a member of all that has been forming and accelerating the 
domestic life for weeks or months, perhaps. Even if there should 
happen to he an unexpressed and inexpressible relief in having 
permanently escaped the sway of a sharp critic, a keen inspecting 
eye which missed nothing, that consciousness only helps to take 
edge off life and make it altogether blurred and brief for the mo- 
ment. In the present case the very meal was suggestive: cold 
cold chickens, lamb, ham on the sideboard with ornamentations 
upon it, remains of jellies, and preparations of cream, — an alto- 
gether chilly dinner, implying in every dish a banquet past. 

And there was not very much said. Joseidi, who was rather 
more tired than everybody else, made no attempt to bring the 
lamp, and no one asked for it. They sat in the waning light, 
which had less of day and more of niglit in that room than 
anywhere else, and made a very sliglit repast in a much sub- 
dued way, with little interest in the cold chicken. Once Mrs. 
Warrender made a remark about the evening5> “ How dark it is! 
I think, Theo, if you don’t do something soon, the trees will crush 
the house.” “ I don’t see what the trees have to do with it,” he 


186 


. A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


answered with irritation; “ I have always begged you not to wait 
for me when I was late.’' “ But you were not late, dear Theo,” 
said Chatty, with a certain timidity. ‘II suppose I ought to know 
whether I was late or not,” he replied. *\nd the ladies were 
silent, and the salad was handed round. Very suitable for a 
summer evening, hut yet on the whole a depressing meal. 

When they rose from the table Mrs. Warrender asked Theo to 
take a turn with her, which he did with great reluctance, fearing 
to he questioned. But she had more discretion than to question 
him, at least on that subject. She told him that if he did not 
particularly want her, she had made up her mind to go away. 
“ Chatty will he dull without her sister. I think she wants a lit- 
tle change, and for that matter, so do I. And you don’t want 
us, Theo.” 

“ That is a hard thing to say, mother.” 

“ I donot mean any blame. I know that the time is critical for 
you, too, my dear boy. That is why I ask, do you wish me to 
remain ? hut 1 don’t think you do.” 

He did not aii'Wer for a full minute. Then, “No,” he said, 
“ I don’t think I do.” They were walking slowly round the house, 
by the same path which they had taken together when the father 
was lying dead, and before there had been question of Lady Mark- 
land in the young man’s life. “ Mother,” he said after another in. 
terval, “I ought to tell you, perhaps. I know nothing about 
myself or what I am going to do; it all depends on some one else. 
Minnie would moralize finely on that, if she were to hear it. 
Things have come to this, that I know nothing about what may 
happen to-morrow. I may start off for the end of tb.e world, — 
that is the most likely, I think. I can't go on living as I am do- 
ing no.w. I may go to — where? I don’t know and I don’t care 
much. If I were a Nimrod, as I ought to have been, I shoidd 
have gone to Africa for big game. But it will probably be Greece 
or something conventional of that kind.” 

“Don’t speak so wildly, dear. Perhaps you will not go away at 
all. You have not made up your mind.” 

“ When I tell you I know nothing, not even about to-morrow! 
But I don’t entertain much hope. That is how it will end, in all 
probability. And of course I don’t want you to stay like rooks 
among the trees l^ere. Poor old house! it will soon have no day- 
light at all, as you say.” 

“ Theo, I hope you will do something before it is too late. It is 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 187 

not a beautiful liouse, but you were born in it, and so was your 
father.” 

He pressed her arm almost violently within his. “ Who knows, 
mother ? great days may be coming for the old place : or if not 
let it drop to pieces, what does it matter ? I shall be the last of 
the Warrenders.” 

“ Theo,” she said with agitation, returning the pressure of his 
arm, “ have you said anything to-night ? ” 

Her question was vague enough, but he was at no difficulty in 
understanding. He said, after a moment, “ I had no opportunity, 
there were people there; but to-morrow, to morrow ” — 

They came out together, as these wmrds were said, upon the, 
edge of the pond. In the depth of that dark mirror, broken by 
water-liles and floating growth of all kinds, there was a pale re- 
flected sky, very colorless and clear, the very soul and center of 
the brooding evening. Everything was dark around, the summer 
foliage black in the absence of light, the heart of June as gloomy 
as if the trees had been funeral plumes. T-e two figures, dark 
like all the rest, stood for a moment on the edge of the M'ater, 
looking down upon that one pale, dispassionate, reflected light. 
There was no cheer in it, nor anything of the movement and pul- 
sation of human existence The whiteness of the reflection chilled 
Mrs. Warrender, and made her shiver. “ I suppose,” she said, 
“ I am fanciful to-night; it looks to me like an unkindly spectator, 
who does not care what becomes of us.” She added, with a little 
nervous laugh, “ Perhaps it is not very probable that our little 
affairs should interest the universe, after all ” 

Warrender did not make any reply. He heard what was said to 
him and saw what was round him in a dim sort of confused way, 
as if every object and every voice were at a distance; and with an 
impatience, too, which it >vas painful to him to keep down. He 
W'ent with her to the house, saying little; but he could not rest 
there, and came out again, groping his way through the surround- 
ing trees, and returned after a while to the pond, Avhere there 
was that light to think by, more congenial even in its chill clear- 
ness than the oppressive dark. It changed beneath his eyes, but 
he took no notice; a star came into it and looked him in the face 
from under the shadow of the great floating shelf of the water- 
lily leaves; and then came the blue of the dawn, the Avidening 
round him of the growing light, the shimmer of llie early rnid- 
Eummer morning, long, long before those hours which men claiin 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


188 

as the working day. That sudden bursting forth of life and coloV 
startled him. in the midst of his dreams, and he went home ano 
stole into the sleeping, darkened house, where by dint of cur- 
tains and shutters, twilight still reigned, with something of 
the exhaustion and neglect of the morning after the feast, the 
morning of the day which was to decide f :>r him whether life 
should be miserable or divine. 

These were the words which the young man used in his infatu- 
ation. He knew no others: miserable, so that he should no 
longer care what happened to him, or believe in any good, which 
was the most probable state of affairs; or divine, a life celestial, 
inconceivable, which was indeed not to be dwelt upon for a mo- 
ment as if under any suggestion of possibility it could be. 

Next day Mrs Warrender began at once her preparations for 
that removal which she had so long contemplated, wliich had been 
so often postponed, throwing Chatty into an excitement so full of 
conflicting elements that it was for some time difficult for the girl 
to know what her own real sentiments were. She had been figur- 
ing to herself with a little wistfulness, nnd an.occasional escapade 
into dreams, the part which it was now her duly to take up, that 
of her molher’s chief companion, the daughter of the house, the 
dutiful dweller at home, who should have no heart and no thought 
beyond the Warren and its affairs. Chatty was pleased enough 
with the former role. It had been delightful both to her mother 
and herself to feel how much they had in common when the great 
authority on all family matters, the regulator of proprieties, the 
mistress of the ceremonies, so to speak, was out of the w’ay, and 
they were left unmolested to follow' their natural bent; but Chatty 
felt a little sinking of the heart wflien she thought of being bound 
to the Warren forever: of the necessity there wmuld be for her 
constant services, and the unlikelihood of any further opening of 
life. While there had been two girls at home, there was always a 
possibility of an invitation, of a visit and little break of novelty, 
but it was one of Minnie’s most cherished maxims that a young 
lady in the house was indispensable, and Chatty, in the recollec- 
tion of it, felt a certain cheerful despair, if the expression is per- 
missible, seize, her. She would be cheerful, she said to herself, 
w'hatever happened. It was her duty: she loved her home, ami 
w'anted nothing else, oh, nothing else! Home and one’s mother, 
what could one w'ant more ? 

But when Chatty heard, all in a moment, those plans which 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMyiN. 


189 


promised, instead of the monotonous life to which she had been 
accustomed, a novelty, of undiscovered distance, of gavcties and 
pleasures unknown, her despair changed into alarm. Was it right, 
liowever pleasant it might be, to go away; to abandon the War- 
ren; to be no longer the young lady of the houso, doing everything 
for those about her, but a young woman at large, so to speak, 
upon the world, getting amusements in her own person, having 
nothing to do, for anybody ? Chatty did not know what to think, 
W’hat to reply to her mother. She exclaimed, “ Oh, mamma!” 
w’ith a gleam of delight; and then her countenance fell, and she 
asked, wdiat will Theo do alone ? ” with all the conscious respon- 
sibility of a sister, the only unmarried sister left. But the (pies- 
tion that was uppermost in her mind did not really concern Theo. 
“What will Minnie- say?” was what she was thinking. She 
turned this over in her mind all day with a breathless sense of so 
many new things that the old sense of subjection was a .sort of 
support to her in the whi' Iwind of change. Minnie had often said 
that nothing short of necessity would make her leave the Warren. 
But then the force of that assertion was somevvliat diminished by 
the fact that Minnie had not hesitated to leave the Warren when 
Mr. Thynne asked her to do so. Was necessity another name fcn 
a husband ? Chatty blushed at this thought, though it seemed 
very improbable that any husband would ever appear to suggest 
such a step to herself. Would Minnie still think that the only 
motive; would she disapprove ? 

Chatty went out by herself that day to take the usual afternoon 
walk which her sister had always insisted upon. The day was 
dull and gray for midsummer, and Chatty had not yet recovered 
from the fatigue of yesterday. She allowed to herself that the 
trees were sadly overgrown, and that it was was quite dark within 
the grounds of the Warren wdien it was still light beyond ; and 
she permitted herself to think that it was a little dull having now- 
where to walk to but Mrs. Bagley’s shop. To be sure there was 
the rectory : but Mrs. Wilberforce would be sure to question 
her so closely about all that had happened and -was going to hap- 
pen that Chatty preferred not to risk that ordeal. There was not 
a soul about the village on thi« particular afternoon. Chatty 
thought she had never seen it so deserted. To make her walk a 
little longer, she had come out by the furthej’ gate of the Warren, 
— the one that Theo always used, that which was nearest to Mark- 
land. The onlv figures she saw in all her line of visidn, as she 


190 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


came out, making a little sound with the gate, which in the silence 
sounded like noise and startle 1 them, were two women, just part- 
ing as it seemed. One of them Chatty saw at a glance was Lizzie 
Hampson. The other — she came hurrying along toward Chatty, 
having parted, it appeared, with a kiss from her companion. 
They met full without any possibility of avoiding each other, and 
Chatty, in spite of herself, gave a long look at this woman, whom 
she had seen before in the high phaeton, and sometimes at tlie 
gate of the Elms. She W'as as young, or it might be younger than 
Chatty, with a lovely complexion, peiiiaps slightly aided by art, 
and quantities of curled and wavy hair. But the chief feature in 
in her was her eyes — eyes of infantine blue, surrounded with 
curves of distress like a child's who had been crying its very heart 
out. It was evident that she had been crying; her eyelashes were 
wet, her mouth quiver ng. Altogether, it seemed to Chatty the 
face of a child that had been naughty and was being punished. 
Poor thing! she said in her soft heart, looking at the other girl 
with infinite pity. Oh, how miserable it must be to go wrong! 
Chatty felt as if she could have found it in her heart to stop this 
poor young creature, and entreat her, like a child, not to be 
naughty any more. 

The other looked at her with those puckered and humid eyes 
with a stare into which there came a little defiance, almost aii in- 
tention of affronting and insulting the young lady ; but in a mo- 
ment had hurried past and Chatty saw her no more. Chatty, too, 
quickened her steps, feeling, she could not lell why, a sensation 
like affront. Wliy should she be affronted ? She did not like to 
look back, but felt as if the woman she had just passed must be 
mocking her behind her back, or perhaps threatening her, ready 
to do her a mischief. And certainly it w'as Lizzie Hampson who 
was running on in front. Chatty called to her in the sudden fright 
that had come over her, and was glad when the girl stopped and 
turned round reluctantly, though Lizzie’s face was also stained 
with crying and wore a mutinous and sullen look. 

“ Did you call me. Miss Warrender ? I am going home. 
Granny is waiting.” 

“ Wait for a moment, Lizzie. * Oh, you have been crying, too. 
What is the matter ? And that — that lady ” — 

“ I won’t tell you a lie, Miss Chatty, when you’ve just found me 
out: but if you’re going to tell upon me! — this is the truth. I have 
been saying good-by to her; and no one in Underwood will ever 


A COUNTliY GENTLEMAN, 191 

see her more.” Then Lizzie began to cry again, melting Chatty’s 
soft heart. 

“ Why should I tell upon you ? I have nothing to say. It ap- 
pears that it is some one you know; but 1 — don’t know who it 
is.” 

“ Oh, Miss Chatty, you are the real good one; ” said Lizzie, “you 
don’t think everybody’s wicke 1. I don’t love her ways, but I love 
her, that poor, poor thing. Don’t tell granny I was with her; but 
it is only to say good-by; that was all, for the last time,— ji^st to 
say good-by.” 

“ Is she— going away ? ” Chatty spoke in a low and troubled 
voice, knowing that she ought not to show any interest, but with 
a pity and almost awe of the sinner which was beyond all rule. 

“ Oh, yes, Miss Warrender, she is going away; the gentleman 
spoke the truth when he said it always comes to misery. There 
may be a fine appearance for a rime, and everything seem grand 
and gay; but it always comes to misery in the end.” 

To this Chatty made no reply. It was not a lesson that she re- 
quired, in her innocence and absence from temptation, to learn, 
but she had an awe of Lizzie and her woi-ds as if a gulf had opened 
at her feet and she had seen the blackness of darkness within. 

“ And if you’ll believe me, she once was just as good and as 
innocent! Well, and she’s a kind of innocent now, for that mat- 
ter. Oh, poor thing! Oh, Miss Warrender, don’t you be angry 
if I’m choking and crying. I can’t help it ! She don’t know what 
she’s doing. She don’t know bad from good, or right from wrong. 
There’s some like that. Just what pleases them at the moment, 
that’s all they think of. She once had as happy a life before her! 
and a good husband, and served hand and foot.” 

“Lizzie,” said Chatty, with a shudder, “ don’t please tell me 
any more. If aTiything can be done ” — 

“ Nothing,” said the girl shaking her head. “ What could be 
done ? If the good ladies were to get her into their hands, they 
would put her in a penitentiary or something. A penitentiary for 
her! Oh, Miss Chatty, it’s little they know. If they could put 
her in a palace, and give her horses and carriages and plenty to 
amuse her, that might do. But she doesn’t want to repent; she 
doesn’t know what it means. She Avants to be well off and happy. 
And she’s so young. Ob, don’t think I would be like that for the 
world, not for the world, don’t think it! But I can’t help know- 
ing how she feels. Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear! ” 


192 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


The wonder with w'hich Chatty heard this strange plea was be- 
yond description; but she would ask no more questions, and hear 
no more, though Lizzie seemed ready enough to furnish her with 
all details. She went back with the girl to the shop, thus disarm- 
ing Mrs. Bagley, who was always full of suspicions and alarm 
when Lizzie was out of the way, and stood talking to the old 
' woman wdiile Lizzie stole into the parlor behind and got rid of 
jhe traces of her tears. Chatty felt very solemn as she stood and 
talked about her patterns, feeling as if she had come from a death- 
bed or a funeral. It \vas soraeihing still more terrible and solem- 
nizing; it was her first glimpse into a darkness of which she knew 
nothing, and her voice sounded in her own ears like a mockery as 
she asked about the bundle of things that had come from High- 
combe. “There’s one as is called the honeysuckle,” said Mrs. 
Bagley: “it will just please yon. Miss Chatty, as likes nice, deli- 
cate little things.” The old woman thought she must be feeling 
her sister’s loss dreadful, looking as melancholy as if it was her 
coffin she was buying. And Chatty accepted the honeysuckle 
pattern and looked out the materials for working it, wnthout re- 
laxing from tiiat seriousness which was so little habitual to her. 
She even forgot all about her own problems, as she w'ent home, 
seeing constantly before her the pretty, childlike face all blurred 
with tears. Was it true, as Lizzie said, that there was no way to 
help or deliver ? If she had stopped, perhaps, as she had almost 
been impelled to do, and said, as it Avas on her lips to say, “ Oh, 
I am so sorry for you ; oh, don’t do wrong any more,” would the 
unhappy creature perhaps have listened to her, and repented, 
though Lizzie said she did not want to repent ? Chatty could not 
forget that pitiful face. Would she ever, she wondered, meet it 
again ? 


XXYL 


Markland lay as usual, bare and white against the sun, upon 
that day of fate. The young trees had grown a little, and stood 
basking, scarcely shivering, leaning their feeble young heads to- 
gethei in the sun, but making liltle show as yet; all was wrapped 
ill the warmth and stillness of the summer morn. The old butler 
stood upon the steps of tlie great door, his white head and black 
figure making a point in the bright, unbroken, still life about. 
Within, Lady Marklarid ivas in the morning-room with her busi- 
ness books and papers, but not doing much; and Geoff was in 
another, alone with his books, not doing much: thinking, both of 
them, of the expected visitor now riding up in a breathless white 
heat of excitement to the hall door. 

The entire house knew what was coming. Two or three maids 
were peeping at the windows above, saying, ‘'There he is,” with 
flutters of sympathetic emotion. That was why the butler stood 
on the steps w'aiting. All these spectators in the background had 
watched for a long time past; and a simultaneous thrill had run 
througli the household, which no one was conscious of being the 
cause of, which was instinctive and incontrovertible. If not yes- 
terday, then to-day; or to-morrow, if anything should come in the 
way to-day. Things had come to such a pitch that they could go 
no further. Of this every one in Markland was sure. There is 
something that gets into the air when excitement and self repres- 
sion run high, and warns the wdiole world about of the approach 
of an event. “ A bird of the air hath carfied the matter.” So it 
is said in all languages. But it is more than a bird in the air, 
swifter flying, entering into the most secret places. The last 
thing that Warrender thought of was that the fire and passion in 
his own breast had been publicly revealed. lie wondered night 
and day whether she knew, whether she had any suspicion, if it 
had ever occurred to her to think; but that the maids should be 


194 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


peeping from the windows, and the old butler watching at the 
door to receive the lover, was beyond his furthest conception of 
possibility: fortunately, since such a thought would have over- 
whelmed him with fury and shame. 

Lady Markland sat at her table, pondering a letter from Mr. 
Longstatfe. She had it spread out before her, but she could only 
half see the words, and only half understand what they meant. 
She had read in 'I'lieo's eyes on the previous day — all. Had he 
but known he had nothing to reveal to her, nothing that she could 
not have told him beforehand! She had felt that the tempest of 
his young passion had been about to burst, and she had been ex- 
travagantly glad of the sudden appeaiance of the visiters who 
made it impossible. She had been glad, but perhaps a little dis- 
appointed, too; her expectation and certainty of what was coming 
having risen also to a white heat of excitement, which fell into 
stillness and relief at the sight of the strangers, yet retained a 
certain tantalized impatience, as of one from whose lips a cup has 
been taken which will certainly have to be emptied another day. 
This was what she said to herself, with a trembling and agitation 
which was fully justified by the scene she anticipated. She said 
to herself that it must be got over, that she would not try to balk 
him, but rather give him the opportunity, poor boy. Yes! it was 
only just that he should have his opportunity, and that this great 
crisis should be got over as best it might. Her hands trembled as 
she folded Mr. Longstaffe’s letter and put it away; her mind, she 
allow^ed to herself, was not capable of business. Poor boy, poor 
foolish boy! for was not he a boy in comparison with herself, a 
woman not only older in years, but so much older in life; a woman 
•who had been a wife, who w-as a mother; a woman whose first 
thoughts •were already pledged to other interests, and for whom 
love in his interpretation of the word existed no more ? She 
would look doMui upon him, she thought, as from the mountain 
height of the calm and distant past. The very atmosphere in 
which such ideas had been possible was wanting. She would 
still him by a -word; she M'ould be very kind, very gentle with him, 
poor boy! She would blame herself for having unintentionally, 
unconsciously, put him in the way of this great misfortune. She 
•would say to him, “ ITow could I have ever thought that I, a 
woman so much older, past anything of the' kind, — that I could 
harm you! But it is not love, it is pity; it is because you are sorry 
for me I And it will pass, and you will learn to think of me as 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


196 


your friend.” Oh, such a friend as she would be to him! and 
when some one younger, prettier, happier than she came in his 
way, as would certainly happen! Lady Markland could not help 
feeling a little chill at that prospect. The warmth of a young 
man’s devotion has a great effect upon a woman. It makes many 
women do foolish things, out of the gratitude, the exhilaration of 
finding themselves lovable and beloved, even when they liave 
passed the age and the possibility of being loved, as Lady Mark- 
land, now seven and twenty, had concluded herself to be. 

Seven and twenty! ah, but that was not all! a wife already, to 
whom it was shame so much as to think of any other man. A 
second marriage appeared to her, as to many women, a sort of 
atheism: a giving up of the religion of the immortal. If mar- 
riage is a tie that endures forever, as it must be every liappy 
woman’s creed it is, how could she die, how dare ever to look in 
the face of a man who because he was dead — no more than that, 
because a change had haptpened to him which was no doing of 
his — she had abandoned for another man ? This argument 
made it once and forever impossible to contemplate such an act. 
Therefore it was to another man’s wife that this poor boy, this 
generous enthusiast, was giving his all. But a woman cannot 
have such a gift laid down at her feet without a sensation of grati- 
tude, without a certain pleasure even amid the pain, in that vindi- 
cation of herself and her womanhood which he makes to her, 
raising her in her own esteem. Therefore she could not be hard, 
could Jiot be angry. Poor boy! to think of what it was he was 
throwing away ; and of the beating heart full of foolish passion 
with which he was coming to say words which her imagination 
snatched at, then retired from, trying not to anticipate them, not 
to be curious, not to be moved in advance by what he must say. 

And then by times she would l ause and ask herself whether 
she could not prevent him, whether she could not spare him 
these fruitless words. Would not it be wrong to let him say 
them when it was so certain what her response must be } She 
might stop him, perhaps, in the utterance; tell him with how 
much sympathy, with how much tenderness! that it must not 
be; that not for her w'ere such expressions possible; that he 
was mistaking himself, and his own heart, in which pity Avas 
moving, not love. Could she do this ? She felt a quick pang of 
disappointment in the thought of not hearing what he had to 
say: but it would be kinder to him — perhaps: wmuld it be kinder? 


J96 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


— to stop those words on his lips, words that should only be said 
to the woman who could listen to them, — to the happy young 
creature whom some time or other he would love. This was the 
confusion of thought in Lady Markland’s mind while she sat by 
her writing-table among her papers, turning them over with nerv- 
ous hands, now opening, now closing again the letters to which she 
could give no attention; letters, a cool observer might have said, 
much more important than a question of a foolish young fellow’s 
love. Meanwhile the maids peeped, and the old butler looked 
down the avenue where Warrender’s black horse was visible, 
marked with foam as if he had been pushed on at a great pace, 
and yet, now that the house was in sight, coming slowly enough. 
The servants had no doubt about what was going to happen so far 
as Warrender was concerned, but it was all the more like an ex- 
citing story to theju that they had no certainty at all how it was to 
end. Opinions were divided as to Lady Markland; indeed, so 
wrapped was the whole matter in mystery that those who ought 
to know the best, old Soames for one, and her own maid for an- 
other, would give no opinion at all. 

Geoff was all this time in the room where he had his lessons, wait- 
ing for his tutor. He was biting his nails to the quick, and twisting 
his little face into every kind of contortion. Geoff was now ten, 
and he had grown a good deal during the year, — if not so very much 
in stature, yet a great deal in experience. A little, a very little, and 
yet enough to swear by, of the wholesome discipline of neglect had 
fallen to Geoff’s share. Business and lessons had parted his day 
from his motlier’s in a way which was very surprising Avhen it was 
realized; and Geoff realized it, perhaps, better than Lady Mark- 
land did. In the evening she was, as before, his alone; though 
sometimes even then a little preoccupied and with other things in 
her mind, as she allowed, which she could scarcely speak to him 
about. But in the long day these two saw comparatively little of 
each other. At luncheon, Warrender was always there, talking 
to Lady Markland of subjects which Geoff was not familiar with. 
The boy thought, sometimes, that Theo chose them on purpose to 
keep him “out of it.” Certainly he was very often out of it, and 
had to sit and stare and listen, which was very good for him but 
did not make him more affectionate towards Theo. To feel “out 
of it ’’ is not a comfortable, but it is a very maturing experience. 
Geoff sat by and thought what a lot Theo knew; what a lot mamma 
knew; what an advantage grown-up people had; and how inat- 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


197 


tentive to other people’s feelings they were in using it. After 
luncheon, Theo frequently stayed to talk something over with 
Lady Markland; to show her something; now and then to help 
lier with something which she did not feel equal to. During these 
moments Geoff was supposed to “play.’’ What he did, generally, 
was to resort to the stables and talk with the coachman and 
Black, whose conversation was perhaps not the oest pos.sible for 
the little lad, and who instructed him in horse-racing and other 
subjects of the kind. 

When Theo went away, Lady Markland would call for Geoff to 
walk down the avenue with her, accompanying the tutor to the 
gate. And after he had been shaken hands with arid had gone, 
then was to Geoff the best of the day. His mother and he, when 
it was fine, strolled about the park together for an hour, in some- 
thing like the old confiding and equal friendship; a pair of friends, 
though they were mother and son, and though Geoff was but ten 
and she twenty-seven. That was old times come back, and re- 
called what was already the golden age to Geoff, the time before 
anything had happened. He did not say before his father died, 
for his childish memory was acute enqugh to recollect that things 
had often been far from happy then. But he remembered the 
halcyon days of the first mourning; the complete peace; the 
gradual relaxation of his mother’s face; the return of her dimples, 
and of laughter. It had only been then, he remembered, that 
he had ^/fed her “ pretty mamma! ” her face had become so fresh, 
and sc .oft and round. But lately it had lengthened a little again; 
and the eyes sometimes went miles off, which made him uneasy. 
“ Why do your eyes go so far away ? do you see anything?” he 
asked, sometimes; and then she would come back to him with a 
start, perhaps with a flush of sudden color, sometimes with a 
laugh, making fun of it. But Geoff did not feel disposed to make 
fun of it. It gave him a pang of anger to see her so; and un- 
consciously, without knowing why, he was more indignant with 
Theo at these moments, than he was when Theo sat at the table 
and talked about matters be\ond Geoff’s ken. What had Theo to 
do with that far-away look ? What could he have to do with it ? 
Geoff could not tell. He was aware there Avas no sense in his an- 
ger, but yet he was angry all the same. 

And now, he sat waiting for Theo to come: waiting, but not 
wishing for liim. Geoff was not so clever as the maids and old 
Soames ; he did not know what he was afraid of. He had never 


198 


A COUNTHY GENTLEMAN. 


formulated to himself any exact danger; and naturally he knew 
nothing of the seductions of that career into which Warrender 
had been drawn without intending it ; without meaning any 
breach of Geoff’s peace or of his own. Geoff did not know at all 
what he feai ed. He felt that there was something going on which 
was against him; and he had a kind of consciousness, like all the 
rest, that it was coining to a climax to-day. But he did not know 
W'hat it was, nor what danger was impending over him. Perhaps 
Theo intended to stay longer; to come to Markland altogether; to 
interfere with the boy’s evenings as he had done with his mornings. 
Or perhaps — but when he for a moment asked himself what he 
feared, his thoughts all fled away into vague alarms, infinitesimal in 
comparison with the reality, which was far too big and terrible for 
his mind to grasp. Mamma was afraid of it, too, he had thought, 
this morning. She had looked as the sky looks sometimes when 
the clouds are flying over it, and the 'wind is high and a storm is 
getting up; sometimes her face would be all overcast, and then 
her eyes had the look of a shower falling (though she did not shed 
any tears), and then there would be a clearing. She was afraid, 
too. It was something that Theo was going to propose: some 
change that he wanted to carry out: and mamma was afraid of it, 
too. This was in one w'ay comforting, hut in another more alarm- 
ing; for it must be very serious indeed, if she, too, was afraid. 

He roused himself from these uncomfortable thoughts, and be- 
gan to pull Ids books about, and put his exercises upon the desk 
which Theo used, when he heard the sound of Theo's arrival, — 
the heavy hoofs of the big black horse, the voice of Soames in the 
hall, the quick steady step coming in. The time had been when 
Geoff would have throwm all his bdoks on the table, and rushed 
out to witness the arrival, with an eager “ Oh, Theo, you’re five 
minutes late !*’ or “ Oh, Theo, I have n’t done yet!” For some 
time, however, he had left off doing this. Things were too serious 
for such vaidties; he lifted his head and held liis breath, listening 
to the approaching footstep. A kind of alarm lest it should not 
be coming here at all, but straight to Lady Markland’s room, 
made him pale for the moment. That w'ould be too bad. to come 
here professedly for Geoff and to go instead to mamma! it would 
be just like Theo; but fortunately things were not quite so bad as 
this. The steps came straight to Geoff’s door. Warrender en- 
tered, looking — the boy could not tell how — flushed, weary-eyed: 
something as he had seen his father look in the morning after a lata 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


199 


night. Excitement simulates many disorders, and this was the 
first thought that leaped to Geoff’s mind, with its little bit of pain- 
ful experience. “I say, Theo !” the boy cried; and then stared 
and said no more. 

‘‘ Well! what is it you say ? I hope you are j)repared to-day, 
not like last time.” 

“ Last time ! but I was very well prepared last time I It is you 
who forget. I knew everything.” 

“ You had better teach me, then, Geoff, for I don’t know every- 
thing: no, nor half what I want to know. Oh, here is the exer- 
cise ! ” Warrender said, sitting down. He looked it over and cor- 
rected it with his pencil, hanging over it, seeming to forget the 
boy’s presence. When that was done he opened the book care- 
lessly, anywhere, not at the place, as Geoff, who w'atched with 
keen eyes everything the young man was doing, perceived in- 
stantly. “ Where did you leave off last time ? Go on,” he said. 
Geoff began ; but he was far too intent on watching Theo to know 
what he was about; and as he construed with his eyes only, and 
not all of them, for he had to keep his companion’s movements 
in sight all the time, it is needless to say that Geoff made sad 
work of his Cicsar. And liis little faculties were more and more 
sharpened witli alarm, and more and more blunted in Latin, when 
he found that stumble as he liked, Theo did not correct him, nor 
say a word He sat with his head propped on his hands, and 
when Geoff paused merely said, “Goon.” Either this meant 
something very awful in the shape of fault-finding when the cul- 
prit had come to the end of the lesson, the exemption now' mean- 
ing dire retribution then, or else — there W'as something very 
WTong wdth Theo. Geoff’s little sharp eyes seemed to leap out of 
their sockets with excitement and suspense. 

At last Warrender suddenly, in the midst of a dreadfully bog- 
gled sentence, after Geoff had beaten himself on every side of 
these walls of words in bewildering endeavors to find a nomina- 
tive, sprang up to his feet. “ Look here,” he said, “I think I’ll 
give you a holiday to-day.” 

Geoff, startled, closed his book upon his hand. “ I had a holi- 
day yesterday.” 

“ Had you? w’ell, what has that to do with it ? You can put 
away your books for to-day. As for being prepared, my boy, if 
my head had not been so bad ” — 


200 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


“ Is your head bad, Theo ? ” Geoff put on a look of solicitude 
to divert attention from his own delinquencies. 

“ 1 think it will split in two,” said Warrender, pressing his hands 
upon his temples, in» which indeed the blood was so swelli’ig in 
every vein that they seemed ready to burst. He added, a minute 
after, “You can run out and get a little air; and ’’—here he 
paused, and the boy stopped and looked up, knowing and fearing 
what was coming. “ And,” repeated Warrender, a crimson flush 
coming to his face which had been so pale, “ I’ll — go and explain 
to Lady Markland.” 

“ Oh, if you ’re in a hurry to go, never mind, Theo! I’ll tell 
mamma.” • 

Warrender looked at Geoff with a blank but angry gaze. “ I 
told you to run out and play,” he said, his voice sounding harsh 
and strange. “It’s very bright out of doors. It will be the best 
thing for you.” 

“ And, Theo! what shall I learn for to-morrow ?” 

“ To-morrow 1” The child was frightened by the look Theo 
gave himr the sudden fading out of the flush, the hollow look in 
his eyes. Then he flung down the book which all the time he 
had been holding mechanically in his hand. “ Damn to-mor- 
row ! ” he said. 

Geoff’s eyes opened wide with amazement and horror. Waa 
Theo going mad ? was that all that it meant after all ? 


XXVII. 


A MINUTE after Warrender was in the room where Lady Mark- 
land sat, with her great writing-table against the light. He did 
not know how he got there. It seemed impossible that it could 
have been by mere walking out of one room into another in the 
ordinary mechanical way. She rose up, dark against the light, 
when he went in, which was not at all her habit, but he was not 
sufficiently self-possessed to be aware of that. She turned towards 
him, w'hich perhaps was an involuntary, instinctive precaution, 
for against the full daylight in the great window he could but im- 
perfectly see her features. The precaution was unnecessary. His 
eyes were not clear enough io perceive what was befoi-e him. He 
saw his conception of her, serene in a womanly majesty far above 
his troubled state of passion, and was quite incapable of perceiv- 
ing the sympathetic trouble in her face. She held out her hand 
to him before he could speak, and said, with a little catch in her 
breath, “Oh, Mr. Warrender! I — Geoff — we were not sure 
whether we should see you to-day.” 

This was a perfectly unintentional speech, and quite uncalled 
for; for nobody could be more regular, more punctual, than War* 
render. It was the first thing sli>e could find to say. 

“ Did you think I could stay aw'ay ?” he asked, in a low and 
hurried tone, which was not at all the beginning he had intended. 
Then he added, “ But I have given Geoff a holiday : if you can 
accord me a little time— if I may speak to you ” — 

“ Geoff is not like other boys,” she said, with a nervous laugh, 
still standing with her back to the light. “ He does not rejoice in 
a holiday, like most children; you have made him love his work.” 

“ It is not about Geoff,” he said. “ I have— something to say 
to you, if you will hear me. I — cannot be silent any longer.” 

Oh,” she said, “ you are going to tell me— I know what it is 
you are going to say — that this cannot continue. I knew that 


202 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


must come sooner or later. Mr. Warrender, you don’t need to be 
told how grateful I am ; I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. 
You have done so much for us. It was clear that it could not — 
go on forever.” She put out her hand for her chair, and drew it 
closer, and sat dowft, still with her back to the window; and now, 
even in his preoccupation with his own overwhelming excitement, 
he saw that she too trembled a little, and that there was agitation 
ill her tone. 

“ Lady Markland, it is not that. It is more than that. The 
moment has come when I must — when I cannot keep up these 
pretenses any longer. Ah I ” for she made a little movement with 
her hand as if to impose silence, “ must it be so ? Must I go un_ 
heard ? ” He came closer to her, holding out his hands in the 
eloquence of nature, exposing his agitated countenance to the full 
revelation of the light. “ It is not much, is it, in return for a life 
— only to be allowed to speak, once : for half an hour, for five 
minutes — once — and then to be silent ? ” Here he paused for 
breath, still holding out his hands in a silent appeal. “ But if that 
is my sentence I will accept it,” he said. 

“Oh, Mr. Warrender, do not speak so. Your sentence! from 
me, that am so deeply in your debt— 4hat never can repay — but I 
know you never thought of being repaid.” 

“ You will repay me now, tenfold, if you will let me speak.” 

She put out her hand towards a chair, pointing him to it, and 
gave him an agitated smile. “ Of course you shall speak, what- 
ever you wish or please, as if to your mother, or your elder sister, or 
an old, old friend.” 

She put up this little barrier of age instinctively, hastily snatch- 
ing at the first defensive object she could find. And he sat down 
as she bade him ; but now that he had her permission said noth- 
ing,— nothing with his tongue, but with his clasped hands and 
with his eyes so much, that she covered hers with an involuntary 
movement, and uttered a little agitated cry. For the moment he 
w’as incapable of saying anything more. 

“ Mr. Warrender,” she said tremulously, “ don’t, oh, don’t say 
what wdll make us both unhappy. You know that I am your — 
friend ; you know that I am a great deal older than you are, 
Geoff’s mother, not a w'oman to whom — not a wmman open to — 
not a” — 

“ I wdll tell you,” he said, “ I know better ; this one thing I 
know better, — a woman as far above me as heaven is above earth, 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


203 


'whom I am not worth a look or word from. Do you think I 
don’t know that ? You -will say I ought not to have come, know- 
ing what I did, that there was no woman but you in the world for 
me, and that you were not for me, nor ever would have any thought 
of me. I should have taken care of myself, don’t you think ? But 
I don’t think so,” he added, almost with violence. “I have had a 
year of paradise. I have seen you every day, and heard you speak, and 
touched your hand. To-morrow I shall curse my folly that could 
not be content with that. But to-day I am mad, and 1 cannot 
help myself. I can’t be silent, though it is my only policy. Morn- 
ing and night I think of nothing but you. When I go to sleep, and 
when I wake, and even when I dream, I can’t think of any tiling 
but only of what you will say. That is what I am going over and 
over all day long, — every little w’ord that you say.” 

He poured this forth with a haste and fluency utterly unlike his 
usual mode of speech, never taking breath, never taking his eyes 
from her, a man possessed ; while she shrinking back in her chair 
her eyes cast down, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping 
each other, listened, beaten down by the tempest of an emotion such 
as she had never seen before, such as she could scarcely understand. 
She had been wooed long ago, lightly wooed, herself almost a child; 
the whole matter little more than a frolic, though it turned into a 
tragedy ; but she did not know, and had never met with anything 
like this. He paused a little to recover his breath, to moisten his 
parched lips, which were dry and hot with excitement, and then 
he resumed. 

‘‘ You talk of a mother, a sister, a friend. I think you want to 
mock me, Lady Markland. If you were to say a woman I ought 
to be content to worship, then I could understand you. I know 
I ought to have been content — except that I have gone distracted 
and can’t be silent, can’t keep quiet. Oh, forgive me for it. Here 
is my life which is all yours, and my heart to put your foot on if 
you please ; all of me belongs to you ; I wish no better, only for- 
give me for saying it — just once, once!” In his vehemence he 
got down on his knees — not by the way of kneeling to her, only to 
get nearer, to come within reach. He touched her hand as if it 
had been the sceptre of mercy. “ Speak to me,” he said, “ speak 
to me! even if to tell me that T am a castaway! ” 

Lady Markland got up quickly, with a look of pain, as if she 
would have fled. “How could you be a castaway ?” she cried. 

Oh, Mr. Warrender, have pity on me I What can I say ? Why 


204 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


should not we live, as we have been doing, in peace and quiet f 
Why should these dreadful questions be raised ? Listen to me a 
little. Can friends not be friends without this ? I am old, I 
am married ! There never could be any question of— Oh, listen 
to me! All this that you have been telling me is pity. Yes, it is 
pity. You are so sorry fov rae. You think I am helpless and want 
— some one to take care me, like other women. Stop, stop ! it 
is is not so ! You must hear me out. I am not so helpless ; and 
you are young ; and f?ome one better than me, some fresh girl, 
some one like yourself — Tbeol” This name came from her lips 
like a cry, because bo had drawn nearer as she drew away from 
him, and had got her hand in both his and was kissing it desper- 
ately, as if he never would let it go. She never called him by his 
name, and yet it so usual in the house that it did not sound 
as does a man’s vyurist’.an name suddenly pronounced by the 
woman he lovef^, like a surrender and end of all contention. But 
she did not. even when she made that cry, withdraw her hand 
from him. She covered her face with the other, and stood sway- 
ing slightly backward away from him, a figure full of reluctance, 
pain, almost terror; yet without either word or gesture that should 
send him away. 

“ Some one,” he cried, “ like myself i 1 want no one, nothing 
in the w^orld, but you 1 It is not I that have raised the question, 
it is something stronger than I. Pity ! Oh, how dare you! how 
dare you:” He kissed her hand with a kind of fury betw^een 
every word. “ I, sorry for the w'omaii wiiom I w'orship, thinking 
she needs me! Good heaven! are you such a woman as you are, 
and know' so little ? Or is it true about women that they don’t 
know love, or want love, but only something tame, something 
quiet,— what you call affection ? ” He stopped with his voice full 
of scorn, notwithstanding the paroxysm of passion, and looked up 
at her, though on bis knees, in ^he superiority wiiich he felt. 

“ You w'ant a friend that Avi'l be tame and live in peace and quiet; 
and I, you tbink, w'ant a fresh girl, like myself. Do you mean to 
insult us both, Lady Markland ? Yes, strike! Order me aw'ay 
from you ; but don’t mock me!— don’t mock me!” Then 
out of scorn and superiority he sank again into the suppliant. “ I 
Avill be tame, if you like; anything that you like. Only don’t 
send me away! ” 

She drew her hand away from him, at last, and sank into her 
chair, Avith her heart in such a commotion, that she scarcely hear d 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


205 


what he was saying for the loud heating in lier ears. Then she 
made a stand again, having been, as it were, beaten from the first 
paralleles, carried away by that fiery charge. She recovered her- 
self a little; controlled the hurrying pulses; called back her 
strength. She said with a trembling voice, “Oh, let us be calm, 
if we can! Tiiiiik a iittle of my position, and yours. O Theo! 
think, besides, what 1 have said, that I am old. How can I bid 
you go, I who owe to you — you will not let me say it, but 1 feei it 
in my heart — so much, so much, of the comfort of my life! I tell 
you again, you should have said what you have been saying to a girl 
— who would have put her hand in yours and that would have 
been all ” — 

He put out his hand to take hers once more, but this time she 
refused him. 

“ Sit there and let us talk. If I had been that girl !— but I am 
not, I never can be. I am a w’oman who have had to act for my- 
self. I am Geoff’s mother. I must think of him and what has to 
be done for him. How can you say I mock you ? We are two 
reasonable beings. We must think ; we cannot be carried away 
by— by— by fancy, by what you call 

Her voice broke, she could not go on, what with the hurrying 
of her blood, the scrutiny of his looks, the passion in him which 
infected her. She waved her hand to him to sit down, to be calm, 
to listen: but she had no voice to speak. 

“lam not reasonable,” he replied, “ no, don’t think it; there 
is no reason in me. Afterwards, I wdll hear all theie is to say. 
You shall make conditions, explanations, anything you please. 
Now is not the time for it. Tell me, am I to go or staj’^ ? He 
■was hoarse, while she "was dumb With both the question had 
gone far beyond the bounds of that reason to which she had ap- 
pealed. “ That is the only thing,” he repeated. “ Tell me: am I 
to go or stay ? ” 

Looking forward to this, it had seemed that Ihei'c was much to 
be said: on his side all the eloquence of passion ; on hers the 
specious arguments of a w'oman who thinks she may still be able 
to withhold and restrain. All these possibilities had fled. They 
looked at each other, almost antagonisls, because of being so much 
the reverse. She drew’’ back, holding herself apart; unwilling to 
accept the necessity of that decision, not knowing how' to escape 
from it; holding her hands clasped together that he might not 
secure them; her heart fluttering in her throat, her head throb- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


206 

bing with pain and excitement. Ah, if she had been that girl I If 
he had sought one like himself! She felt it, too, even in the scorn 
with which he repulsed the suggestion; and for a moment it hung 
on the balance of a thought, on the turn of a look, whethei his 
patience might not give way; whether his fasti lious temper might 
not take fire at the aspect of the reluctance with which she held 
away from him, kept back, would not yield. But, on the other 
hand, the very reluctance, was it not a subtle attraction, a charm 
the more; giving a sweetness beyond all speaking to the certainty 
that, underneath all that resistance, the real citadel was won. 

After this momentary armistice and pause, in which they both 
seemed to regain their hurried breath, and the mist of the combat 
dispelled a little, he threw himself down by her again, and got 
both the clasped hands into his own, saying with something be- 
tween supplication and authority, ‘‘ I am to stay ? ” 

“ I cannot tell. I cannot — I cannot” — 

Her voice was almost inaudible; but it was enough that there 
was no negative which could be uttered ; and in this way the long 
battle came to an end in a moment. They looked at each other, 
scarcely believing it; asking each other, could it be so ? Even he 
scarcely ventured to presume that it was so, though he had forced 
it and taken the decision into his own hands. 

There ensued a half hour or more of bewildered happiness, in 
which it seemed to him, at least, that the world had turned into a 
different sphere, and to her that there was in life a sweetness 
which had come to her too late, of which she could never taste 
the true flavor, nor forget the bitterness behind; yet which was 
sweet and wonderful, — too wonderful, almost, to believe. She 
delivered herself over to listen, to behold the flood of the young 
man’s rapture. It filled her with a kind of admiration and almost 
terror. She was like his mother, though with a difference. She 
liad not known what love was. It w^as wonderful to her to see it, 
to know that she was the object of it; but as the warm tide 
toiiched her, invaded her being, carried her aw'ay, there was some- 
thing of fear mingled with her yielding to that delight. She had 
been so certain that she would not yield ; and yet had made so 
poor a resistance I It was fortunate that he was so lost on his side 
in the wonder of the new bliss, aiul had so much to pour forth of 
triumph and ecstasy, that he accepted the silence on her part 
without comment even in his own mind. It was too completely 
mibopcd for, too extraordinary, what had already happened, that 


A COUNTUY GENTLEMAN. 


207 


he should ask for more. Her passive position, her reticence, but 
added to the rapture. She was his almost against her will, con- 
strained by the torrent of love which was irresistible, which had 
carried all her defences away. This gave her a sort of majesty in 
the young man's dazzled eyes. He was giddy with joy and pride. 
It had seemed to him impossible that he could ever win this 
’ queen of his every thought; and it became her, as a queen still, 
to stand almost aloof, reluctant, although in all the sweetness of 
consent she had been made to yield. It was her part, too, in 
nature and according to all that was most seemly, to bring him 
back to the consideration of that invading sea of common life 
which surrounded his golden isle of happiness. She put up her 
hand as if to stop his mouth. 

“ Oh, Theo, there are so many things which we must think of. 
It cannot be all happiness as you suppose. You are not thinking 
how many troublesome things I bring with me.” 

“ Let trouble be for to-morrow,” he cried ; ” nothing but joy on 
this white day.” 

She looked at him with a shiver, yet a smile. “ Ah, you are so 
young! your heart has no ghosts lik® mine.” 

“ Speak respectfully of my heart, for it is yours. The ghosts 
shall be laid, and the troubles will fly away. What are ghosts to 
you and me ? One may be subject to them, but two can face the 
world.” 

“ Oh, dreamer I ” she cried, but the reflection of the light in his 
face came into hers, almost against her will. 

“Not dreamer: lover, a better word. Don’t spend your strength 
for nothing, my lady and mistress. Do you really believe that you 
can make me afraid, to-day ? ” 

She shook her head, not answering, which indeed he scarcely 
left her time to do, he had so much to say. His very nature 
seemed changed, the proud, fastidious, taciturn Warrender bab- 
bling like a happv boy, in the sudden overflow of a bliss which 
was too much for him. 

But while he ran on, a real interruption came: the profane and 
commonplace burst in with a louder voice than hers. It was not 
anything of importance equal to the greatness of the crisis: it was 
only the bell that meant the commonest of all events, the bell for 
luncheon. It fell into the soft retirement of that paradise, which 
was something of a fool’s paradise to Theo, scaring and startling 
the pair. She made a start from his side with a guilty blush, and 


208 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


even he for a moment paused with something like a sense ot 
alarm. They looked at each other as if they had been suddenly 
cited to appear before a tribunal and answer for what they bad 
done. Then he broke into a breathless laugh. I shall have to 
leave you. I can’t face that ordeal. Oh, what a falling oft is here 
^luncheon ! must I leave everything for that ? ” 

“Yes, go, go: it is too much,” she murmured, like a culprit 
whose accomplice may be saved, but who herself must face the 
judge “ I could not bear it; I could not hold up my head, if you 
were there.” 

“ One moment ! ” She was leaning towards him, when Geoff’s 
hasty steps were heard in the hall and his voice that seemed to 
sound sharp in her very ears, “ Where’s mamma ? ” Lady Mark- 
land fell back with a face like a ghost, covering it with her hands. 
Warrender felt as if a sudden dame was lit in his heart. He seized 
her almost with violence. “Ivill come back to-night, when he 
is in bed. Be in the avenue. I must see you again to-day.” 

“ I will, Theo.” 

“ At nine o’clock.” He pulled away the hand which still was 
over her eyes. “ You are aiine, remember, mine first. I shall 
count the minutes till I come back. Mine first, mine always.’' 

‘‘ Oh, Theo, yes! — for the love of Heaven go! ” 

Was that how to conclude the first meeting of happy lovers ? 
Warrender rushed through the hall, with his blood on fire, almost 
knocking over Geoff, who presented himself, very curious and 
sharp-eyed, directly in the way. 

“Oh, I say, Theo!” cried Geoff. “Where are you going, 
Theo ? That’s lunch ! lunch is on the table. Don’t you hear the 
bell? Can’t you stay ? ” 

Warrender waved his hand, he could make no reply. He w'ould 
have taken the child by the collar and flung him far away into the 
unknown, if that had been practicable. Ghosts, she had said: 
Geoff was no ghost, but he was insupportable ; not to be seen 
with composure at that tremendous moment. The young man 
rushed down the steps, and struck across the drive at a pace like 
a racehorse, though he was only walking. He forgot even the big 
black, munching his hay tranquilly in the stable and thinking no 
harm. 


o 


XXVIII. 


Lady Markland came out of her room a little after, paler than 
usual, with a great air of stateliness and gravity, conscious to her 
finger-points of the looks that met her, and putting on an aspect 
of corresponding severity to meet them. Geoff seized and clung 
to her arm, as he was wont, and found it trembling. He had be- 
gun to pour forth his wonder about Theo even before he made 
that discovery. 

Why, Theo has gone away! He would n’t stop for lunch. I 
shouted to him, but he never paid any attention. Is he ill, or is 
he in trouble, or what’s the — Why, mamma! you are all trem- 
bling! ” 

“ Nonsense, Geoff, I have been — sitting with the window open, 
and it is a little cold to-day.” 

“ Cold!” Geoff was so struck by the absurdity of the statement 
that he stopped to look at her. “ Ah,” he said, “you have not 
been running up and down to the stables, or you never would think 
that.” 

“ No, I have been sitting — writing.” 

“Oh!” said the child again, “ were you writing all the time 
Theo was there ? I thought you were talking to Theo. He gave 
me a holiday because he had something he wanted to say to 
you.” 

“ I have told you a great many times, Geoff, that you should 
not call Mr. Warrender Theo. It is much loo familiar. You 
must not presume because he is so very kind to you ” — 

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” said Geoff lightly. “What was he 
saying to you, mamma ?” 

By this time they were at the table; that is, she was at the bar, 
■ — seated, indeed, as a concession to her weakness, — about to be 
tried for her life before the august judges, Geoff and old Soames, 
both of whom had tlieir attention fixed on her with an intentness 


210 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


which the whole bench could scarcely equal. She held her head 
very high, but she did not dare to lift iqj her eyes. 

“ Will you have this, or some of the chicken ? ” she asked, with 
a voice of solemnity not quite adapted to the question. 

“ I say, mamma, was it about me, or was it some trouble he was 
in?” 

“ My dear Geoff, let us attend to our own business. The 
chicken is best for you. And why have you been running up and 
down to the stables ? I thought I had said that I obj^ted to the 
stables.” 

By dint of thus carrying the war into the enemy's country, she 
was able to meet her boy’s keen eyes, which were sharp with 
curiosity, “ like needles,” as old Soames said, Soaraes, the other 
of her judges, gave this verdict without hesitation. *• She has 
given him the sack,” he said confidentially to the housekeeper, as 
soon as he could spare a moment. “ And a very good thing, too.” 
The housemaids had come to the same conclusion, seeing Theo’s 
hurried exit, and the rate at which he walked down the avenue. 
The news ran through the house in a moment: My lady has 
given him the sack.” The old servants were glad, because there 
Avould be then no change; and the young ones were sorry for the 
same reason, and partly, too, because of their sympathy for the 
young lover dismissed, w'hose distracted departure without his 
horse went to their tender hearts. 

Geoff had to enter into an explanation as to why he had sought 
the stables as soon as he was dismissed from his books, — an ex- 
planation which involved much; for it had already been pointed 
out to him on various occasions that the coachman and Black 
were not improving society . Geoff had to confess that it was dull 
when he had a holiday, that he did n’t know where to go, that 
Black and the coachman were more fun than any one else, — with 
an expressive glance over his shoulder at old Soames: all which 
pleas went like so many arrows to Lady Markland’s heart. Had 
she been so neglecting her boy that Black and the coachman had 
become his valued allies ? — she who believed in her heart that up 
to this moment her life had been devoted to Geoff. 

The day passed to her like a day in a fever. Geoff liked it, on 
the whole. There was no Theo to linger after lunch and inter- 
fere with his possession of his mother. The long afternoon was 
all his, and Lady Markland, though she was, he thought, dull, 
and sometimes did not hear what he said, letting her attention 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


211 


stray and her eyes go far away over his head, was yet very ten- 
der, more affectionate than ever, anxious to inquire into all his 
wishes and to find out everything he wanted. He talked to her 
more than he had done at a stretch for a long time, and made it 
so apparent how completely he calculated upon her as always his 
companion that Lady Markland’s guilty soul was troubled within 
her. She faltered once, “ But, Geoff, you know you will have to 
goto school, they all say; and then to Oxford, when you are a 
mjin.” “Yes, and you can come and live close by my college,” the 
boy said. “Many boys’ mothers do, the rector told me.” Her 
heart sank more and more as he opened up his plans before her. 
It was all quite simple to Geoff. He did not dreanuof any change 
in himself, and what change could ever come to lier ? Presently 
the manner in which the child calculated upon her, ignoring every 
personal claim of hers, awoke a little spark of resistance in Lady 
Markland’s breast. A little while ago she would herself have said 
(nay, this morning she would have said it) that she had no life 
but in him, that for her there w'as no future save Geoff’s future ; 
and even now it seemed guilt in her that she should have calcu- 
lations of her own. 

But as for saying anything to him on the subject, how could 
she do it ? It was impossible. Had he been a young man, with 
some acquaintance with life, she thought it would not have been 
so hard; or had he been a mere child, to whom she could have 
said that Theo w'as to be his new papa. But ten; a judge and a 
critic; a creature who knew so much and so little! Half a dozen 
times she cleared her throat to begin, to lead the conversa- 
tion back to Theo, to make some attempt at disclosure; 
but another look at his face chilled the words on her lips. 
She could not do it : how could she ever do it ? They went out 
and had a long drive together ; they strolled about the park 
afterwards before dinner, the boy hanging, as was his habit, 
upon her arm, pressed close to her, talking— about everything in 
heaven and earth, but never loosening that claim which was 
supreme, that proprietorship in her which she had never contest- 
ed till now, never herself doubted. Geoff meant to be very good 
to his mother, — to be her protector, her support, as soon as he 
should be big enough. She w'as to be his chief companion, always 
with him, his alone, all his, as she was now. Any other reading of 
life was not possible to him. He felt sure there was something 
about Theo which he had not been told, some story which he 


212 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

would get mamma to tell him sooner or later, but never that this 
story could interfere with himself and his mother: that was im- 
possible, beyond the range of the boy’s wildest misgivings. As for 
Lady Markland, she was more than silenced, she was overawed, by 
his certainty. She let him run on, her own thoughts drifUng 
away; pulled up now then by an importunate, repeated question, 
then wandering again, but never far, only to the impossibility of 
making Geoff understand. How should she convey to him the 
first germ of the fact that mother and son are not one; that they 
separate and part in the course of nature; that a woman in the 
flower of her life does not necessarily centre every wish in the 
progress of a little boy? Howto tell him this; how to find a 
language which could express it, in which such a horrible fact 
could be told! To herself it was terrible, a thing foreign 
to all her tenets, to all her principles. Even now that she 
had done it, and bound herself forever, and raised this waU be- 
tween herself and her child, between herself and her past life, it 
was terrible to her. If she had ever been certain of anything in 
her life, it had been that such a step was impossible. Marriage 
for her who was already married ; a new life to come in place of 
the old ; a state of affairs in which Geoff should no longer be first, 

in which, in fact, it would be better, an ease to her, that Geoff 

should be away. Oh, horrible thought! — an ease to her to be 
without Geoff! She had lived for him; she had said and felt that 
he was everything to her, the sole object of her love and her life. 
And now he was an embarrassment, and it would be well for her 
if he could be got away. 

In this confusion of mind mingled with impulses to flight, with 
impulses of going and throwing herself on Theo’s mercy, begging 
him to give her up, — for she could not do it, — the day passed. 
Geoff clung to her and talked, — talked incessantly all the day 
through, giving her his opinions about Theo as well as about 
everything else ; and she listened, hearing some things most dis- 
tinctly, as it may be believed, but not all, nor near all. Weary, 
was it possible, of her own child, of the ceaseless voice in her 
ears ? ” She was conscious of urging him to go to bed, as she 
would not have thought of doing in other circumstances ; urging 
him against his will, telling him that he was getting later and 
later, that it made him pale and nervous, that he must go— all be- 
cause she was anxious to escape, because she had promised to 
meet— Could a woman sink into lower humiliation,— a woman, a 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


213 


mother, not a foolish girl ? At last she managed to escape breath- 
lessly, tying a black veil over her head; stealing out, saying a 
nervous word to Soaines about the beautiful nioonlight. Even 
8oames had to see her humiliation. She had to linger, as if she 
were looking at the moonlight, while Soaines stood upon the steps, 
and \\ ith shame and confusion crossed the space before the door, 
which was all one flood of light, marked only by her little shadow, 
small and clinging to her feet. She could have wished that there 
should never be moonlight more, so shamed and mortified and 
humiliated did she feel. The darkness would have been better; 
the darkness would have hidden her, at least. In this condition 
of shame and pain she went along, gliding into what shadow the 
young trees could throw, brushing against the bushes underneath. 
And then suddenly, all in a moment, there was calm; ah, more 
than calm, a refuge from all trouble, a sudden escape from herself 
and all things that were oppressing her. Without any word said, 
a sudden meeting in the shade of the trees, and two where there 
had been but one, — a young lover and a woman who, Heaven help 
her, was young too, and could still drop her burden off her 
shoulders and for a moment forget everything except the arm 
that supported her, and the whisper close to her ear, and the 
the melting of all her bonds, the melting of her very being into 
his, the heavenly ease and forgetfulness, the Vita Nuova never 
known before. 

It seemed not herself all laden with shame, but another woman, 
who raised her head, and said to him, shaking as it were her bond- 
age from her, “ This is not becoming for you and me. Let us go 
in. Whatever we have to encounter together, we must not do it 
in secret. I must not linger about here, Theo, like one of my 
maids.” 

“ Yet stay a moment,” he sai^l. Perhaps the maids have the 
best of it. Tlie sweet air of the night, the magical light so near 
them, the contact and close vicinity, alm-^st unseen of each other, 
added an ethereal atmosphere to the everlasting, always continued 
tale. 

“ T was partly love and partly fear. 

And partly ’t was a ’'ashful art, 

That I might rather feel that see 
The swelling of her heart.” 

After a time, they emerged into the moonlight ; slowly moving 
towards the house; she leaning upon his arm, he stooping over 


214 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


her, a suggestive posture. Soames upon the doorsteps could not 
believe his eyes. He would have shut up before now, if he had 
not seen my lady go out. To admire the moonlight! It did not 
seem to Soames a very sensible occupation; but wdien he saw her 
coming back, not alone, wonder and horror crept over him. He 
watched them with his mouth open, as well as his eyes, and when 
he w^ent down-stairs and told Black, who had made the hoi-ses 
comfortable for the night, to go and bring out Mr. Warrender’s 
horse, a shock ran through the entire house. After all! But 
then it w'as possible that he had always intended to come back 
and ride his horse home. 

Black walked about (very unwillingly and altogether indifferent 
to tlie beauty of tlie moonlight) for nearly an hour before Warren- 
der came out, with an aspect w^as very unlike that of the morning. 
Happiness beamed from him as he w^alked; and Lady Markland 
came out to the door to see him start, and called good-night as he 
rode away. “ Good-night — till to-morrow,” he said, turning’ back 
as long as he could see her, which w^as a tempting of Providence 
on the part of a man who w\as not a great rider, and with a big 
horse like the black, and so fresh, and irritated to be taken out of 
the stable at that hour of the night. The servants exchanged 
looks as my lady walked back with eyes that shone as they bad 
never shone before, and something of that glory about her, that 
dazzling and mist of self-absorption, wdiicli belongs to no other 
condition of the mind. She went back into the room and shut the 
door, and sat down where she had been sitting, and delivered her- 
self over to those visions which are more enthralling than any 
reality; those mingled recollections and anticipations wdiich are 
the elixir of love. She had forgotten all about herself, — herself as 
she was before that last meeting. Her age, her gravity, the false- 
ness of the position, the terrible Geoff, all floated aw^ay from her 
thoughts. They were filled only with wiiat he had been saying 
and doing, as if she had been that “fresh girl” of whom she had 
spoken to him. She forgot that she W'as not that girl. She forgot 
that she w’as four years (magnified this morning into a hundred) 
and a wiiole life in advance of Theo. She thought only — Poor 
lady, assailed after her time by this love-fever, taking it late and 
not lightly ! — she thought not at all, but surrendered herself to 
that overwhelming w^ave of emotion wiiich, more than almost 
anything else, has the pow'er of filling up all the vacancies of life. 
Her troublous thoughts, her shame, her sense of all the diflSculties 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


215 


in her way, went from her in that new existence. They were all 
there unchanged, but for the moment she thought of them no 
more. 

It was not till some time after this that she went upstairs with 
her candle through the hushed and darkened house, the light in 
her hand showing still that confused sweet shining in her eyes, 
the smile that lurked about the corners of her mouth. A faint 
sound made her look up as she went towards the gallery upon 
which all the bedrooms opened. Standing by the banister, look- 
ing down into the dark hall, was Geoff, a little white figure, his 
colorless hair ruffled by much tossing on his bed, his eyes dazzling 
by the light. “ Geoff! ” She stood still, and her heart seemed to 
stop beating. To see him there was as if a curtain had suddenly 
fallen, shutting out all the sweet prospects before her, showing 
nothing but darkness and danger instead. “Geoff! Is it you out 
of bed at this hour ? ” 

“Yes, it is me,” he said, in a querulous tone; “there is no one 
else so little in the house: of course it is me.” 

“ You are shivering with cold; have you ” — Her breath seemed 
to go from her as she came up to him and put her arm round him. 
“ Have you been hero long, Geoff ? ” 

“ I could’nt sleep,” said the child, “ and I heard a noise. I saw 
Theo. Has Theo been back here with you ? What did Theo want 
here so late at night ? ” 

He did not look at her, but stared into the candle with eyes 
opened to twice their usual size. 

“ Come into my room.” she said. “You are so cold; you are 
shivering. Oh, Geoff! if you make yourself ill, what shall I do ? ” 

He let her lead him into her room, wrap him in a fur cloak, and 
kneel down beside him to chafe his feet with her hands; this 
helped her in the dreadful crisis which had come so suddenly, 
and which she feared more than anything else in the world. 
“ You must have been about a long time, or you could not have 
got so cold, Geoff.” 

“ Yes, I have been about a long time. I thought you would 
come up directly, after Theo went away.” He looked at her very 
gravely as she knelt with her face on a level with his. He had 
filled the place of a judge before without knowing it; but now 
Geoff was consciously a judge, interrogating one who was too 
much like a criminal, who avoided the looks of that representative 
of offended law. “ Theo stayed a long time,” he said, “ and then 


216 


A COUJSrTRY GENTLEMAN. 


he rode away. I suppose he came to fetch his horse.” How ho 
looked at her! Her eyes were upon liis feet, which she was rub- 
bing, as he lay stretched out on the sofa; but his eyes burned into 
her, through her downcast eyelids, making punctures in her very 
brain. 

“ He did come for his horse.” She could hardly hear the words 
she was saying, for the tumult of her heart in her ears. “ But 
that was not all, Geoff.” 

For a long minute no more was said ; it seemed like an hour. 
The mother went on rubbing the child’s feet mechanically, then 
bent down upon them and kissed them. No Magdalen was ever 
more bowed with shame and trouble. Her voice was choked ; she 
could not speak a word in her own defence. If it had been happi- 
ness, oh, what a price to pay ! 

At last Geoff said, with great gravity, “ Theo was always very 
fond of you.” 

I think so, Geoff,” she answered, faltering. 

“ And now you are fond of him.” 

She could say nothing. She put her head down upon the little 
white feet and kissed them, with what humility, with Avhat com- 
punction!— her eyes dry and her cheeks blazing with shame. 

“It’s not anything wrong, mamma.” 

“ No, Geoff; oh no, my darling,— they say not: if only you don’t 
mind.” 

The brave little eyes blinked and twinkled to get rid of unwel- 
come tears. He put his hand upon her head and stroked it, as if 
it had been she that was the child. “■ I do mind,” he said. She 
thought, as she felt the little hand upon her head, that the boy 
was about to call upon her fora supreme sacrifice; but for a 
moment there was nothing more. Afterwards be repulsed her a 
little; very slightly, but yet it was a repulse “ I suppose,” he 
said, “ it cannot be helped, mamma. My feet are quite warm now 
and I’ll go to bed.” 

“ Geoff, is that all you have got to say to me ? It can make no 
difference, my darling, no difference. Ah, Geoff, my own boy, 
you wull ahvays be my first ” — 

Would he, should he, be her first thought ? She pa7ised, con- 
science-stricken, raising for the first time her eyes to his. But a 
child does not catch such an unconscious admission. He took no 
notice of it. His chief object, for the moment, was not to cry, 
which would be beneath his dignity. His little heart was all for- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


217 


I'orn. He had no clear idea of what it was, or of what was going 
to happen, but only a vague certainty that mamma and Theo were 
to stand more and more together, and that he was “ out of it.” 
He could not talk of grown-up things, as they could ; he would 
be sent to play, as he had been this morning. He, who had been 
companion, counselor, everything to her, he would be sent out to 
play. The dreary future seemed all summed up in that. He slid 
out of her arms, with his little bare feet on the carpet, flinging the 
fur cloak from him. “ I was a little cold because the door Avas 
open, but I’m quite warm now ; and I’m sleepy, too. And its 
long, long past bedtime, don’t you think, mamma ? I wonder if 
I was ever as late before ? ” 

He looked at her when he asked that question ; and suddenly 
before them both, a little vague and confused to the child, to her 
clear as if yesterday, came the picture of that night when Geoff 
and she had watched together, he at her feet curled into her 
dress, while his father lay dying. Oh, he had no right to reproach 
her, no right! and yet the pale, awful face on the pillow, living, 
yet already wrapt in the majesty of death, rose up before her. 
She gave a great cry and clasped Geoff in her arms. She was still 
kneeling, and his slight little white figure swayed and trembled 
with the sudden weight. To have that face like a spectre rise up 
before her, and Geoff’s countenance averted, his little eyes twitch- 
ing to keep in the tears, — was there anything in the world worth 
that ? Magdalen ! Ah, worse than Magdalen ! for that sinner 
poured out her tears for what was past, whereas all this shame 
was the price at which she was going to buy happiness to come. 

And yet it was nothing wrong 


4 


XXIX. 


Mrs. Warrknder and Chatty left the Warren at the end of 
the week in which these events had taken place. They had a 
farewell visit from the rector and Mrs. Wilberforce, which no 
doubt was prompted by kindness, yet had other motives as well. 
The Warren looked its worst on the morning when this visit was 
paid. It was a gray day, no sun visible, the rain falling by inter- 
vals, the sky all neutral tinted, melting in the gray distance into 
indefinite levels of damp soil and shivering willows, — that is, 
where there was a horizon visible at all. But in the Warren there 
was no horizon, notliing but patches of whitish-gray seen among 
the branches of the trees, upon which the rain kept up such an 
endless, dismal patter as became unendurable after a time, — a 
continual dropping, the water dripping off the long branches, 
drizzling through the leaves with incessant, monotonous downfall. 
The Wilberforces came picking their way through the little pools 
which alternated with dry patches along all the approaches to the 
house, their wet umbrellas making a moving glimmer of reflection 
in the green, damp atmosphere. Inside the rooms were all dark, 
as if it had been twilight. Boxes stood about in the hall packed 
and ready, and there were those little signs of neglect in the usual 
garnishing of the rooms which is so apt to occur on the eve of a 
departure. Chatty, with her hat on, stood arranging a few very 
wet flowers in a solitary vase, as if by Avay of keeping up appear- 
ances, the usual decorations of this kind being all cleared away. 
“ Theo is so little at home,” she said, by way of explanation, “ he 
would get no good of them.” Afterwards when she thought of 
it. Chatty was sorry that she had mentioned her brother at all.” 

“ Ah, Theo! We have been hearing wonderful things of Theo,” 
said Mrs. Wiberforce, as Mrs. Warrender approached from the 
drawing-room to meet them. ‘‘ I have never been so surprised in 
my life; and yet I don’t know why I should be surprised. Of 
course it makes his conduct all quite reasonable when we look 
back upon it in that light.” 

“ Who speaks of conduct that is reasonable ? ” said Mrs. War- 
render. “ It is kinder than reason to come and sea us this 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 219 

melanclioly day. It is very discouraging to leave home under 
such skies.” 

“But you don’t need to leave in such a hurry, surely. Theo 
would never press you : and besides, I suppose, with a larger house 
so close at baud, they would not live here.” 

“ There is nobody going to live here that I know of, except 
Theo,” said his mother, while Chatty, aways kind, took off tlie 
visitor’s wet cloak. “ Xotwithstanding the packing and all the 
fuss the servants love to make, we may surely have some tea. I 
ought to ask you to come and sit down by the fire. Though it is 
June, a fire seems the only comfortable thing one can think of.” 
Mrs. Warrender was full of suppressed excitement, and talked 
against time, that the callers might not insist upon the one topic 
of which she was determined nothing should be said. But the 
rector’s wife was not one whom it was easy to balk. 

“ A fire would be cosy,” she said; “but I suppose now the 
Warren will be made to look very different. With all the will in 
the world to change, it does need a new start, does n’t it, a new 
beginning, to make a real change in a house ? ’ 

The assault was ineffective from tlje fact that it called forth no 
remark. As Mrs. Warrender had no answer to make, she took 
refuge in that which is the most complete of all, — silence, — and 
left her adversary to watch, as it were, the smoke of her own guns, 
dispersing vaguely into the, heavy air. 

“ We are going to London, first,” Mrs. Warrender said. “ No, 
not for the season ; but if any little simple gayeties should fall in 
Chatty’s way 

“ Little simple gayeties are scarcely appropriate to London in 
June,” said the rector, with a laugh. 

“ No; if we were to be received into the world of fashion. Chatty 
and I — But that does n’t seem very likely. We all talk about 
London as if we were going to plunge into a vortex. Our vortex 
* means two or three people in South Kensington, and one little 
bit of a house in Mayfair.” 

“ That might be quite enough to set you going, said Mrs. Wil- 
berforce. It only depends upon who the people are; though now, 
I hear that in London there are no invitations more sought after 
than to the rich parvenus’ houses— people that never were heard 
of till they grew rich; and then they have nothing to do but get a 
grand house in Belgravia, and let it be known how much money 
they have. Money is everything, alas, now.” 


220 A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

“ It always was a good deal, my dear,” observed the rector, 
mildly. 

“Never in my time, Herbert! Mamma would no more have 
let us go to such houses ! It is just one of those signs of the time 
which you insist on ignoring, but which one day — This new 
connection will be a great thing for Chatty, dear Mrs. Warrender. 

It is such a nice thing for a gi^l to come out under good auspices.' 

“Poor Chatty, we cannot say that she is coming out,” said her 
mother, “and the Tliynnes, I have always understood, were dull 
people, not fashionable at all,” 

“ Oh, you don’t tliink for a moment that I meant the Tbynnes ! 
She has been very quiet to be sure ; but now, of course, with a 
young husband — I am sure Chatty does not look more than 
nineteen; I always say she is the youngest-looking girl of her age. 
And as she has never been presented, what is she but a girl com- 
ing out ? But I do think I would wait till she had her sister-in- 
law to go out with. It a may be a self-denial for a mother, but it 
gives a girl such an advantage ! ” 

“ But Chatty is not going to have a husband, either young or 
old,” said Mrs. Warrender, with a laugh which was a little 
forced. “ Ah, here is the tea. I wish we had a fire, too, Joseph, 
though it is against rules.” 

“ I’ll light you a fire, mum,” said Joseph, “ in a minute. None 
of us would mind the trouble, seeing as it’s only for once, and the 
family going aw'ay. ” 

“ That is very good of you not to mind,” said his mistress, 
laughing. “ Light it then; it will make us more cheerful before 
we go.” 

“ Ah, Joseph,” said the rector’s wife, “you may well be kind to 
your good old mistress, who has always been so considerate to 
you. For new lords, new laws, you know : and when the new 
lady comes ” — 

Joseph, who was on his knees lighting the fire, turned round * 
with the freedom of an old servant. “ There ain’t no new ladies 
but in folk’s imagination,” he said. “The Warren ain’t a place 
for nothing new.” 

“ Joseph ! ” cried his mistress, sharply; but she was glad of the 
assistance thus afforded her. 

And there was a little interval during which Mrs. Wilberforce 
was occupied with lier tea. She was cold and damp, and the 
Steaming cup was pleasant to see ; but she was not to be kept in 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


221 


silence even by this much-needed refresliment. “ I should think,” 
she resumed, “ that tlie boy would be the chief difficulty. A 
step-mother is a difficult position ; but a step-father, and one so 
young as dear Thco ! ” 

“Step-fathering succeeds better than step-mothering,” said the 
rector, “ so far as my experience goes. Men, my dear, are not so 
exacting; they are more easily satisfied.” 

“ What nonsense, Herbert! They are not brought so much in 
contact -with the children, perhaps, you mean; they arc not called 
on to interfere so much. But how a mother could trust her chil- 
dren’s future to a second husband— For my part I would rather 
die.” 

“ Let us hope you will never need to do so, my dear,” said the 
rector, at which Mrs. Warrender was glad to laugh. 

“ Happily none of us are in danger,” she said. “ Chatty must 
take the warning to heart, and beware of fascinating widowers. 
Is it true about the Elms, that the house is empty and every one 
gone ? ” 

“ Thank Heaven ! it is quite true ; gone like a bubble burst, 
clean swept out, and not a vestige left.” 

“ As every such place must be, sooner or later,” said Mrs. Wil- 
berforce. “ That sort of thing may last for a time, but sooner or 
later ” — 

“I think,” said the rector, “that our friend Cavendish had, 
perhaps, something to do with it. ^t appears that it is an uncle 
of his who bought the house when it was sold three years ago, and 
these people wanted something done — to the drainage, I suppose. 
I advised Dick to persuade his uncle to do nothing, hoping that 
the nuisance— for, I suppose, however wicked you are, you may 
have a nose like other people— might drive them out ; and so it 
has done apparently,” Mr. Wilberforce said, with some com- 
placency, looking like a man who had deserved well of his kind. 

“ They might have caught fever, too, like other people. I 
wonder if that is moral, to neglect the drains of the wicked ?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, firmly; “they have not noses 
like other people. How should they, people living in that way ? 
The sense of smell is essentially a belonging of the better classes. 
Servants never smel. anything. We all know that. My cook 
sniffs and looks me in the face and says, ‘I don’t get anything, 
m’m,’ when it is enough to knock you down ! And persons of 
that description, living in the midst of every evil 1 Not that I 
believe in all that fuss about drains,” she added, after a moment. 


222 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ We never had any drains in the old times, and who ever heard 
of typhoid fever then ? 

But if they had been made very ill ? ” said Chatty, who, up 
to this time, had not spoken. ‘‘ I don’t think — surely, Mr. Cav- 
endish would not have done that.” 

She was a little moved by this new suggestion. Chatty was not 
interested in general about what w^as said, but now and then a 
personal question w’ould rouse her. She thought of the w^oman 
with the blue eyes, so wide open and red with crying, and then of 
Dick with his laugh Avhicli it always made her cheerful to think 
of. Chatty had in her mind no possible link of connection be- 
tween these two : but the absence of any power of comprehend- 
ing the abstract in her made her lay hold all the more keenly on 
the personal, and the thought of Dick in the act of letting in 
poisonous gases upon that unhappy creature filled her with hor- 
ror. She was indignant at so false an accusation. “Mr. Caven- 
dish,’ she repeated with a little energy, “ never would have done 
that.” 

“ It is all a freak of those scientific men,” said Mrs. Wilberforee. 
Look at the poor iieople : they can do a great deal more, and sup- 
port a great deal more, than we can ; yet they live among bad 
smells. I think they rather like them. I am sure my nursery is 
on my mind night and day, if there is the least little whiff of any- 
thing; but the village children are as strong as little ponies — and 
where is the drainage there ? 

With this triumphant argument she suddenly rose, declaring 
that she knew the brougham was at the door, and that Mrs. War- 
render would be late for the train. She kissed and blessed both 
the ladies as she took leave of them : “ Come back soon, and 
don’t forget us,” Avhile to Mrs.Warrender she gave a little friendly 
pat on the shoulder. “ You won’t say anything, not even to true 
friends like Herbert and me ^ but a secret like that can’t be kept, 
and you may n’t think so, everybody knows.” 

“Do you think that is true, mamma ?” Chatty asked, when the 
wet umbrellas had again gone glimmering through the shrub- 
beries and un^er the trees, and the ladies were left alone. 

“ That everybody knows ? It is very likely. There is no such 
thing as a secret in a little world like ours ; everybody knows 
everything. But still they cannot say that they have it by 
authority from you and me. It is time enough to talk of it wheq 
it is a fact, if it is to be.” 

“ But you have not any doubt of it, mamma ? ” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


22 ^ 


“ I have doubt of everything till it is done ; even,” she said 
with a smile, as the wheels of the brougham cut the gravel and 
came round with a little commotion to the door, “ of our going 
away; though I allow that it seems very like it now.” 

They did go away, at last, leaving the Warren very solitaiy, 
damp and gray, under the rain, — a melancholy place eiiougdi for 
Theo to return to. But he was not in a state of mind to think (T 
that, or of any of his home surroundings, grave or gay. Chatty 
put lier head out of the window to look behind her at the melan- 
choly yet dear old house, with tears in her innocent eyes, but Mrs. 
Warrender, feeling that at last she liad shaken herself free from 
that, bondage, notwithstanding the anxiety in her heart for her 
son, had no feeling to spare for the leave-taking. She waved her 
hand to Mrs. Bagley at the shop, who was standing out at her 
door with a shawl over her cap to see the ladies go by. Lizzie 
stood behind her in the doorway saying notliing, wliile her grand- 
mother curtseyed and waved her hand and called out lier wishes 
for a good journey, and a happy relurn. Naturally Chatty’s eyes 
sought those of the girl, who looked af'.er her with a sort of blank 
longing as if she, too, would fain have g<!ne out into the world. 
Lizzie's eyes seemed to pursue her as they drove past. — poor Liz- 
zie, who had other things iji her mind. Chatty began to think, 
beside the fashion books : and then there came the iall red mass 


of the Elms, with all its windows shut up, and that air of mystery 
which its encircling wall and sti.l more, its recent hi story conferred 
upon it. The two Jadies looked out upon it, as they drove past, 
almost with awe. 

‘•Mamma,” said Cliatty, “ I never told \ou. I saw the — the 
ladv, just when she was going away.” 

‘•What lady ?” asked Mrs. Warrender, with surprise. 

“ I don’t think,” said Chatty, with a certain solemnity, “that 
she was any older, perhaj s not s<* old as 1 . It made my heart 
sick. Oh, dear mother, must there not be some e.\planation. some 
dreadful, dreadful fate, when it happens that one so young — 
“Sometimes it is so; these are mysteries which yon, at }Our 
age, Chatty, have no need to go into.’’ 

^ “ At my age, which was about the same as hers, said Chatty; 
“and — oh, mamma, I wanted in my heart to stop her, to hiing 
lier to you. She had been crying; she had such iunoceiit looking 
distracted eyes — and Lizzie said ” — ^ 

“ Lizzie! what had Lizzie to do with it ? ” 

“ I promised to tell no one: but you are not any one, you are 
the same as myself. Lizzie says she knew her long ago : tha s le 
was the same as a child still, not responsible for what she is doi j, 
—fond of toys and sweets like a child.” 

“ My dear. I am sorry that Lizzie should have kept up sucii a 
friend. I believe there are some jwor souls th.at if an innocent 
girl were to do what yon say, stoji them and bring them to iier 
mother, might be saved, Chatty. I do believe that; but not— not 

f/u.s kind ” ^ , .,4.1 

The tears by this time were falling fast from Chatty s eyes. J 
wonder,” she said, “ if 1 shall ever see her again ? 


224 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Never, 1 hope; for you could do nothing for her. Shut the 
window, my dear, the rain is coming in. Poor Theo,. how wet he 
will get, coming home! I wonder if he will have the thought to 
change everything, now that there is no occasion to dress, Jiow 
that we are away.” , . 

“ Josepli will give him no peace till he does,” said Chatty, hap- 
pily diverted, as her mother had intended, from sadder thoughts. 
“ And don’t you think she will make him stay to dinner on such 
a day? Don’t you think she must care a great deal for iiiin, 
mamma?” 

“ She must care for him or she would not have listened to him. 
Poor Theo !” said the mother, with a sigh. 

“But he cares very much for her : and he is happy,” said 
Chatty, with a certain timidity, a half question ; for to her inex- 
perience these were very serious drawbacks, though perhaps n(;t 
such as might have occurred to a more reasonable person. !Mrs. 
Warremler had to change this subject, too, which Chatty showed 
a disposition to push tof> far, by making iiKpiiry into the number 
of their bags and parcels, and reminding lier daughter that they 
were drawing near the station. It was a very forlorn little sta- 
tion. wet and dismal, with a few men lounging about, the col’ars 
of their coats up to their ears, and Mrs. Warrender’s maid stand- 
ing by her pile of boxes, having arrived before them. It had 
been an event long looke I for, much talked of, but it was not a 
cheerful going away. 

The rain had gone off however, by the time they reached town, 
and a .June day has a power of recovering itself, such us youth onJy 
possesses. But no, that is an error, as Mrs. •\Varrender proved. 
She had been leaning back in lier corner very quiet, saying little, 
yet with an intense sense of relief and deliverance. She came to 
London Avith as delightful a consciousness of novelty and freedom 
as any boy coming to seek his fortune. Chatty’s feelings Avere all 
very mild in comparison with her mother’s. She was greatly 
pleased to see the clouds clear off and the humid SAveetness of the 
skies, Avhich even the breath of the great city did not obscure. 
“ After all, Theo Avill have a nice evening for his drive home,” 
she said, unexcited. Though it Avas all very agreeable, Chatty 
did not know of anything important that might UAvait her in town. 
She knew more or less, she believed, Avhat awaited her, — a fcAv par- 
ties, a play or tAvo, the Roav in the morning, the pictures, a pleas- 
ant little glimpse of the outside of that fashionable life which was 
said to be “ such a Avhirl,” AAdiich she had no expectation, nor any 
desire to see much of. There Avas no likelihood that she and 
her mother Avould be druAvn into that Avhirl. If all the people 
they kneAV asked them to dinner, or even to a dance, Avhich Avas 
scarcely to be expected, there AAmuld still be no e.xtravagant gayety 
in that. Driving from the railway to Half Moon Street, Avas as 
pleasant as anything: to a girl of very hi£rhly raised expectations, 
it might have been "the best of all: but Chatty di<l not anticipate 
too much, and AAmuld not be easily disappointed. She neither ex- 
pected nor Avas afraid of any great thing that might be coming to 
her. Her quiet heart scenred beyond the reach of any touch of fate. 


XXX. 


On the mantelpiece of the little lodging-house drawing-room in 
Half Moon Street, supported against the gilt group that decorated 
the timepiece, was a note containing an invitation. “ Why, here 
is the whirl beginning already,” Mrs. Warrender said. “Don’t 
you feel that you are in the vortex. Chatty?” Her mother 
laughed, and was a little excited even by this mild matter; but 
Chatty did not feel any excitement. To the elder woman, the 
mere sense of the population about her, the hurry in the street, 
the commotion in the air, was an excitement. She would have 
liked to go out at once, to walk about, to get into a hansom like a 
man, and drive through the streets, and see the lights and the 
glimmer of the shops, and the crowds of people. To be within 
reach of all that movement and rapidity went into her veins like 
wine. After the solitude and silence of so many years, tiothing 
but the rustle of the leaves, the patter of the rain, the birds or the 
wind in the branches, and the measured voices, indoors, to vary 
the (luiet,— the roar of Piccadilly mingling with everything was a 
sort of music to this woman. To many others, perhaps the ma- 
jority, the birds and breezes would be the thing to long for; but 
jMrs. Warrender was one of the people who love a town and all 
that seems like a larger life in the collection together of many 
human lives. Whether it is so or not is another question, or if the 
massing together of a multitude of littles ever can make a great- 
ness. It seems to do so, -which is enough for most people; and 
though the accustomed soul is aw’are that no desert can be more 
lone than London, to the unaccustomed its very murmur sounds 
like a general consent of humanity to go forth and do more than 
is possible in any other circumstances. It is the constitution of 
the ear wdiich determines what it hears. For Chatty took the 
commotion rather the other way. She said,^ One can t heai 
one’s self speak ” and wanted to close the windows. ut i... 

AVarrender liked the very noise. 

The dinner to wb.ich they w^ere invited was in Curzon Street, lu 
a house which was small iu reality, but made the most of every 
inch of ils space, .aud w hich was ciothed and curtained and deco- 


226 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


rated in a manner which made the country people open their eyes. 
The party was very small, their hostess said ; but it would have been 
a very large party at the Warren, where all the rooms were twice as 
big. Chatty was a little tluttered by her first party in London ; 
but it did not appear in her aspect, which was always composed 
and simple, not demanding any ono/s regard, yet giving to people 
who were blase or tired of being attracted (as sometimes liappens) 
a sense of repose and relief. She must have been more excited, 
however, than was at all usual with her; for though she thought 
she had remarked evei-ybody in the dim drawing-i-oom, — where 
the ladies in their pretty toilets and the men in their black coats 
stood about in a perplexing manner, chiefly against the light, 
which made it difficult to distinguish them, instead of sitting 
down all round the room, which in the country would have seemed 
the natural way,— it proved that there was one very startling ex- 
ception, one individual, at least, whom she had not remarked. She 
went down to dinner with a gentleman, whose name of course she 
did not m.ake out, and whose appearance, she thought, was exactly 
the same as that of half the other gentlemen in the procession 
down the narrow staircase. Chatty, indeed, made disparaging 
reflections to herself as to society in general on this score ; the 
thought flashing through hti' mind that in the country there was 
more difference between even one curate and another (usually 
considered the most indistinguishable class) than between these 
men of Mayfair. She was a little bewildered, too, by the appear- 
ance of the dining-room, for at that period the diner d la Eiisse 
was just beginning to establish itself in England, and a thicket 
of flowers upon the table was novel to Chatty, filling her first 
with admiration, then with a little doubt whether it would not be 
better to see the people more distinctly on the other side. Dinner 
had gone on a little way, and her companion had begun to put 
the usiial questions to her about where she had been, and where 
she was going, questions to which Chatty, who had been nowhere, 
and had not as yet one other invitation (which feels a little humil- 
iating when you hear of all the great things that are going on 
could make but little reply, when suddenly, in one of the pauses 
of the conversation, she was aware of a laugh, which made her 
start slightly, and opened up an entirely new intei-est in this as 
yet not very exciting company. It was like the opening of a win- 
dow to Chatty: it seemed to let in pure air, new light. And yet 
it was only a laugh, no more. She looked about her with a little 


A CO UN TUT GENTLEMAN. 


227 


eagerness, and then it was that she began to find the flowers and 
the ferns, whicli liad filled her with enthusiasm a moment before, 
to be rather in the way. 

“ I suppose you go to the Kow every morning,*’ said her enter- 
tainer. “ Don’t you find that always the first thought when one 
comes to town ? You ride, of course. Oh, why not in the Row ? 
there is nothing alarming about it. A little practice, that is all 
that is wanted, to know how to keep your horse in hand. But you 
hunt ? then you are all right, and can ride anywhere ” — 

“ Oh no, we never hunted.” It struck Chatty with a little sur- 
prise to be talked to as if she had a stud at her command. Should 
she tell him that this was a mistake; that there were only two 
liorses beside Theo’s, and that Minnie and she had once had a 
pony between them — which was very different from hunting, or 
having nerve to ride in the Row ? Chatty found afterwards that 
horses and carriages, and unbounded opportunities of amusing 
yourself, and a familiar acquaintance with the entire peerage were 
always taken for granted in conversation whenever you dined 
out; but at first she was unacquainted with this peculiarity and 
did not feel quite easy in her mind about allowing it to bo sup- 
posed that she was so much greater a person. Her little hesita- 
tions, however, as to how she should reply, and the pause she 
made when she heard that laugh, arrested the current of her com- 
panion’s talk, and made it necessary for her, to her own alarm, to 
originate a small observation, which, as often happens to the shy 
speaker, occurred just at the moment when there was a lull in the 
general talk. What she said was, “Do you ride often in the 
Row ? ” in a voice which though very soft was quite audible. 
Chatty retired into herself with the semsation of having said some- 
thing very ridiculous when she caught a glance or two of amuse- 
ment, and heard a suppressed titter from somebody on the other 
side of the fashionable young man to whom she had addressed 
this very innocent question. She thought it was at her they 
were laughing, whereas the fact was that Chatty was supposed by 
those who heard her to be a satirist of more than usual audacity, 
setting down a coxcomb with deserved but ruthless contempt. 
IS'aturally she knew nothing of this, and blushed crimson at her 
evidently foolisl/ remark, and drew back in great confusion, not 
conscious even of the stumbling reply. She was almost immedi- 
ately conscious, however, of a face which suddenly appeared on 
the other side of the table round the coi ner of a bouquet of waving 


22^ A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

ferns, lit up Mutli smiles of pleasure and eager recognition. “ Oh, 
Mr. Cavendish! then it was you,” she said, unawares; but the 
tumult of the conversation had arisen again, and it seemed very 
doubtful whether lier exclamation could have reached his oar. 

When the gentlemen came upstairs. Chatty endeavored to be 
looking very earnestly the other way; not to look as if she ex- 
pected^ idni; but Dick found his way to her immediately. “I 
can’t think how I missed you before. I should have tried hard 
for the pleasure of taking you down, had I known you were here,” 
he said, svith that look of interest which was the natural expres- 
sion in his eyes when he addressed a woman. “ When did you 
come to town, and where are you staying ? I do not know any- 
thing that has been going on, I have heard nothing of you all for 
so long. There must be quite a budget of news.” 

Chatty faltered a little, feeling that Mr. Cavendish had never 
been so intimate in the family as these questions seemed to imply. 

“ The Wilberforces were quite well when we left,” she said, with 
the honesty of her nature, for to be sure it was the Wilberforces 
rather than the Warrenders who were his friends. 

“ Oh, never mind the Wilberforces,” he said; “ tell me some- 
thing about you.” 

“ There is something to tell about us, for a wonder,” said Chatty 
“ My sister Minnie is just married; but perhaps you would hear 

of that?” , , 

“ I think I saw it in the papers, and was very glad —here he 

stopped and did not finish his sentence. A more experienced per- 
son than Chatty would have perceived that he meant to express 
his satisfaction that it was not she: but Chatty had no such in- 
sight. 

“ Yes, he has a curacy quite near, for the moment, and he will 
have an excellent living, and it is a very nice marriage. We came 
to town for a little change, mamma and I.” 

“ That is delightful news. And Theo ? I have not heard from 
Theo for ages. Is he left behind by himself ? ” 

“Oh! Theo is well. Theo is— Oh, I did not mean to say any- 
thing about that.” 

Chatty did not know why she was so completely off her guard 
with Dick Cavendish. She had almost told him everything before 
he was aware. 

“ Not in any trouble I hope ? Don’t let me put indiscreet ques- 
tions.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 229 

“It is not that. There is nothing indiscreet: only I forgot that 
we had not meant to say anything.” 

“ I am so very sorry,” cried Cavendish. “ You must not think 
I would ask what you don’t wish to tell me.” 

“ But I should like to tell you,” said Chatty, “ only I don’t know 
j what mamma will say. I will tell hei- how it came out before I 
knew, and you must not say anything about it, Mr. Cavendish.” 

“ Not a syllable, not even to your mother. It shad be some- 
thing between you and me.” 

The way in which this was said made Chatty’s eyes di-oop for a 
moment:- but what a pleasure it was to tell him ! She could not 
understand herself. She was not given to chatter about what 
happened in the family, and Dick was not so intimate with Theo 
that he had a right to know; but still it was delightful to tell him. 
“ We don’t know whethe.i to be glad or sorry,” she said. “ It is 
that perhaps Tbeo, after a while, is going to marry.” 

“ That is always interesting,” said Dick; but he took the reve- 
lation calmly. “ What a lucky fellow! No need to wait upon 
fortune, like the rest of us. To marry — whom ? Do I know the 
lady ? I hope she is all that can be desired.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Cavendish, that is just the question. There is mamma 
coming; perhaps she will tell you herself, which would be so much 
better than if you heard it from me.” 

Mrs. Warrender came up at this moment, very glad to see him, 
and quite willing to disclose their number in Half Moon Street, 
and to grant a gracious permission that he should call and be “ of 
use,” as he offered to be. “I am not a gentleman at large, like 
Warrender: I am a toiling slave, spending all my life in Lincoln’s 
Inn. But in the evening I can spare a little time — and occasion- 
ally at other moments,” he added, with a laugh, “ when I try. A 
sufficient motive is the great thing. And of course you will want 
to go to the play, and the opera, and all that is going on.” 

“ Not too much,” said Mrs. Warrender. The air of London is 
almost enough at first. But come and we shall see.” 

She said nothing, however, about Theo, nor was there any 
chance of saying more. But when Cavendish took Chatty down 
stairs to put her in the carriage (only a cab, but that is natural to 
country people in town), he hazarded a whisper as they went 
downstairs, “ Remember there is still something to tell me.” “Oh, 
yes,” she replied, “ but mamma herself, I am sure “ No,” he 
said, “ she has nothing to do with it. It is between you and me.” 


230 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Tills little conference made her wonderfully bright and smiling 
when she took her place beside her mother. She did not say any- 
thing for a time., but when the cab turned into Piccadilly, with its 
long line of lights,— an illumination which is not very magnificent 
now, and was still less magnificent then, but new' and fine to 
Chatty, accustomed to little more guidance through the dark than 
that ■which is given by the light of a lantern or the oil lamp in 
Mrs. Bagley’s shop, — she suddenly said, “Well! London is very 
pleasant! ” as if that w'as a fact of which she was the first dis- 
coverer. 

“ Is it not? ” said her mother, wdio was far more disinterested 
and had not had her judgment biased by any wdiisper on the stairs, 
“lam very glad that you like it. Chatty. That will make my 
pleasure complete.” 

“Oh, wdio could help liking it, mamma ? ” She blushed a little 
when she said this, but the night w'as kind and covered it; and 
how' could Mrs Warrender divine that this gentle enthusiasm re- 
lated to the discovery of what Chatty called a friend among so 
many strangers, and not to the mere locality in which this meet- 
ing had taken place. Who could help liking it ? To be talked to 
like that, with eyes that said more than even the words, with that 
sudden look of pleasure, with tlie delightful little mystery of a 
special confidence betw'een them, and with the prospect of meet- 
ings hereafter, — "wdio could tell how many ? — of going to the play. 
Chatty laughed under her breath with pleasure in the thought. It 
was a most admirable idea to come to London. After all, whatever 
Minnie might say, there was nobody for understanding how' to 
make people happy like mamma! 

Dick’s sensations were not so innocent nor so sweet. He w'alked 
home to his chambers, smoking his cigar, and chewing the cud of 
fancy, which was more bitter than sweet. What right had he to 
bend over that simple girl, to lay himself out to please her, to 
speak low in her ear ? Dick knew, unfortunately too well, what 
was apt to come of such a beginning. Without being more of a 
coxcomb than was inevitable, he was aware that he had a way of 
Xdeasing women. And he had a perception that Chatty was ready 
to be pleased, and that he himself wished, — oh, very much, if he 
dared — to please her. In these circumstances it was perfectly evi- 
dent that he should peremptorily take himself out of all i)ossibility 
of seeing Chatty. But this was utterly contrary to the manner in 
which he had grect(;d her, the fervor with which he had immedi- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


251 


ately flung himself into the affairs of the family. It was his occu- 
pation as he walked home to defend and excuse himself for this 
to himself. In the first place, which was perfectly true, he had 
not known at all that the Warrenders were to be of the party: ho 
had thus fallen into tlie snare quite innocently, without any fault 
of his. Had he known, he might have found an excuse and kept 
away. But then he asked himself, why in the name of Heaven 
should he have kept away ? Was lui so captivating a person that 
it would be dangerous to Miss Warreuder to meet him — once; or 
such a fool as to be unable to meet a young lady whom he admired 
— once, without harm coming of it ? To be sure he had gone 
further: he had thrown himself, as it were, at the feet of the 
ladies, with enthusiasm, and had made absurd offers of liimself to 
be “of use.” There could be no doubt that as things stood this 
was mad enough, and culpable, too; but it was done without pre- 
meditation, by impulse, as he was too apt to act, especially in such 
matters; and it could be put a stop to. He was pledged to call, it 
was true; but that might be once and no more. And then there 
was the play, the opera, to which he had pledged himself to at- 
tend them; once there could not do much harm, either. In^U^ed, 
so long as he maijitained, Avhich he ought to do always, full con- 
trol over himself, Avhat harm could it do to be civil to Thes) War- 
render’s mother and sister, who were, so to speak, after a sort, old 
friends ? He was not such an ass (he said to himself) as to tliin.k 
that Chatty was at his disposal if he should lift up his finger; and 
there was her mother to take care of her; and they were not 
people to be asking each other what he “ meant,” as two experi- 
enced woman of society might do. B.3lh mother and daughter 
were very innocent; they would not think he meant anything c.x- 
cept kindness. And if he could not take care of himself, it was a 
pity! Tims in the course of his reflections Dick found means to 
persuade himself that there was nothing culpable in pursuing the 
way which Avas pleasant, which he Avanted to pursue; a result 
which unfortunately very of ten folloAvs upon reflection. The best 
Avay in such an emergency is not to reflect, but to turn and fly at 
once. But that, he said to himself, not without some complais- 
ance, would be impulse, which he had just concluded to be a 
very bad thing. It was impulse Avhich had got him into the 
scrape; he must trust to something more stable to get him out. 

In the course of his Avalking, and, indeed, before these though Is 
had gone very far, he found himself at the corner of Half Moon 
Street, and turned along Avith the simple purpose of seeing wbicii 


232 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


was No. 22. There were lights in several windows, and he lin- 
gered a moment, wondering which might be Chatty’s. Then with 
a stamp of his foot, a laugh of utter self-ridicule, whicli astounded 
the passing cabmen (for he was not surely such a confounded sen- 
timental ass as that), he turned on his heel and went straight 
home without lingering anywhere. It was hard upon him that h ^ 
should be such a fool; that he should not be able to restrain him- 
self from making idiotic advances, which he could never follow 
out, and for a mere impulse place himself at the mercy of fate ! 
But he would not be led by impulse now, in turning his back. It 
should be reason that should be his guide, reason and reflection 
and a calm working out of the problem, how far and no further 
he could with safety go. 

And yet if it had been possible that he could have availed him- 
self of the anxiety of his family to get “ a nice girl ” to take an 
interest in him, where could there be a nicer girl than Chatty ? 
There were prettier girls, but as for beauty, that was not a thing 
to be spoken of at all in the matter. Beauty is rare, and it is often 
(in Dick’s opinion) attended by qualities not so agreeable. It is 
often inanimate, apt to rest upon its natural laurels, to think it 
does enough when it consents to look beautiful. He did not go in, 
himself, for the sublime. But to see the light come over Chatty’s 
face as if the sun had suddenly broken out in the sky ; to see the 
pleased surprise in her eyes as she lifted them quickly, without 
any affectation, in all the sweetness of nature ! She was not clever 
either ; all that she said was very simple. She was easily plea.sed, 
not looking out for wit as some girls do, or insisting upon much 
brilliancy in conversation. In short, if he had been writing a 
poem or a song about her (with much secret derision he recognized 
that to be the sort of thing which in the circumstances foolish pei- 
sons were capable), the chief thing that it occurred to him any one 
could say was that she was Chatty. And quite enough, too ! he 
added, to himself, with a curious warmth under his waistcoat, 
which was pleasant. Wasn’t there a song that went like that ? 
Though this was fair, and that was something else, and a third 
was so-and-so, yet none of them was Mary Something-or-other. 
He was aware that the verse was not very correctly quoted, but 
that was the gist of it ; and a very sensible fellow, too, was the 
man who wrote it, whoever he might be. 

With this admirable conclusion, showing how much reason and 
reflection had done for him, Dick Cavendish wound up the even- 
ing— and naturally called at 22 Half Moon Street, next day. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


I>ICK Cavendish called at Half Moon Street next day, and 
found the ladies just returned from a walk, and a little tired and 
very glad to see a friendly face, which his was in the most emi- 
nent degree. They had been out shopping, that inevitable occu- 
pation of women, and they had been making calls, and informing 
their few acquaintances of their arrival. Mrs. Benson, at whose 
house the dinner had been, was one of the few old friends with 
whom Mrs. Warrender was in habits of correspondence, and thus 
had known of their coming beforehand. Dick found himself re- 
ceived with the greatest cordiality by Mrs. Warrender, and by 
Chatty with an air of modest satisfaction which was very sweet. 
Mrs. Warrender was desirous of a little guidance in their move- 
ments, and took so sincerely his offer to be of use that Dick found 
no means at all of getting out of it. Indeed, when it came to that, 
he was by no means so sure that it was necessary to get out of it, 
as when he had begun his reflections on the subject. He even 
proposed — why not ?— that they should all go to the play that very 
evening, there being nothing else on hand. In those days the 
theatre was not so popular an institution as at present, and it was 
not necessary to engage places for weeks in advance. This sudden 
rush, however, was too much for the inexperienced country lady. 
“ We are not going to be so prodigal as that,” she said, ‘‘ it would 
deprive us of all the pleasure of thinking about it : and as every- 
thing is more delightful in anticipation than in reality ” — 

“Oh, mamma!” said Chatty, shocked by this pessimistic 
view. 

“ And what am I to do with myself all the evening,” said Dick, 
with mock dismay, “ after anticipating this pleasure all day ? If 
anticipation is the best part of it, you will allow that disappoint- 
ment after anticipation is doubly ” — 

“ If you have nothing better to do, stay and dine with us,” 
Mrs. Warrender said. This proposal made Chatty look up with 


234 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


jileasiire, and then look down again lest she should show more 
than was exi^edient how glad she was. And Dick, who had re- 
flected and decided that to call once and go to the theatre once 
could do no harm, accepted with enthusiasm, without even paus- 
ing to ask himself whether to dine with them once might be added 
without further harm to his role of permissions. The dinner was 
a very commonplace, lodging-house dinner, and Chatty got out 
her muslin work afterwards, and had a quite industrious evening 
very much like her evenings at home. She was like a picture of 
domestic happiness personified, as she sat in the light of the lamp 
with her head bent over her work, the movement of her arm mak- 
ing a soft rustle as she worked. She Avore a muslin gown after 
the fashion of the time, which Avas notin itself a beautiful fashion, 
but pretty enough for the moment, and her hair, Avhich Avas light 
brown, fell in little curls OA'er her soft check. She looked up noAV 
and then, while the others talked, turning from one to another, 
sometimes saying a Avord, most frequently Avith only a smile or 
look of assent. Let us talk as we Avill of highly educated Avomcn \ 
and of mental equality and a great many other fine things ; but as 
a matter of fact, this gentle auditor and sympathizer, intelligent 
enough to understand Avithout taking much part, is a more largely 
accepted symbol of AAdiat the woman ought to be than anything 
more prominent and individual. Just so Eve sat and listened 
Avhen Adam discoursed Avith the angel, ] utting by in her mind 
various questions to ask Avhen the celestial biit rather long-Avimled 
visitor AA'as gone. Perhaps the picture is not quite harmonious 
Avith the few facts in our possession in respect to our first mother, 
and does scant justice to that original-minded Avoman : but the 
type has seized hold upon the imagination of mankind. Dick 
thought of it vaguely, as he looked (having secured a positi(»n in 
which he could do so Avithout observation) at this impersonation 
of the woman’s part. lie thought if another felloAV should look 
ju for a talk, Avhich Avas his irreverent Avay of describing to him- 
self the visit of the angel, it Avould be highly agreeable to have her 
there listening, and to clear up the knotty points for her Avhen 
they should be alone. He had little doubt that Eve aa'OuUI have 
an opinion of her OAvn, very favorable to his way of stating the 
subject, and Avould not mind criticising the other felloAV, Avith a 
keen eye for any little point of possible ridicule. He kept think- 
ing Ibis as he talked to Mrs. Warrender, and also that the little 
cluster of curls was pretty, and the bend of her head, and indeed. 


COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 235 

everything about her ; not striking, perhaps, or out of the com- 
mon, but most soothing and sweet. 

And next evening, having had those pleasures of anticipation 
which Mrs. Warrender thought so much of, he went with them to 
the play, and spent an exceedingly pleasant evening, pointing out 
such people as he knew (who were anybody) to Mrs. Warrender 
between the acts, and enjoying the sight of Chatty’s absorption in 
the play, which made it twice as interesting to himself. The play 
was one in which there was a great deal of pretty love-making 
along with melodramatic situations of an exciting kind. The 
actors, except one, were not of sufficient reputation to interest any 
reader save those with a special inclination to the study of the 
stage. But though it Svas on the very highest level, there was a 
great deal in it that thrilled this young man and woman sitting 
next to each other, and already vaguely inclined towards each 
other in that first chapter of mutual attraction which is, perhaps, 
in its vagueness and irresponsibility the most delightful of all. 
Dick would have laughed at the idea of feeling himself somehow 
mixed up with the lover on the stage, who was not only a good 
actor, but a much handsomer fellow than he was ; but Chatty had 
no such feeling, and with a blush and quiver felt herself wooed in 
that romantic wooing, with a half sense that the lights should 
be lowered and nobody should see, and at the same time an en- 
chantment in the sight which only that sense of a personal share 
in it could have given. 

After this beginning Dick’s reflections went to the wind. He 
felt injured when he found, that, not knowing their other friends 
in town, he had no invitations to accompany them, when those 
persons did their duty by their country acquaintances, and asked 
them, one to dinner, another— oh, happiness to Chatty— to a 
dance. But it did not turn out unmingled happiness for Chatty 
after all, though she got a new dress for it, in which she looked 
prettier (her mother thought, who was no flattering mother) than 
she had ever done in her life. Mrs. Warrender saw the awaken- 
ing in Chatty’s face which gave to her simple good looks 
a something higher, a touch of finer development ; but tjie 
mother neither deceived herself as to the cause of this, nor 
was at all alarmed by it. Dick was a quite suitable match for 
Chatty ; he was well connected, he was not poor, he was taking 
up his possession, if somewhat late, yet with good prospects. If 
there had been escapades in his youth, these were happily over. 


236 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


ami as his wild oats had been sown on the other side of the 
Atlantic, no one knew anything about them. Why, then, should 
she be alarmed to see that Chatty opened like a flower in the ris- 
ing of this light which was oa Dick, too, so evident as to be un- 
mistakable? In such circumstances as these the course of true 
love would be the better of a little obstacle or two ; the only 
difficulty was that it might run too smooth. Mrs. Warrender 
thought that perhaps it was well to permit such a little fret in the 
current as the dance proved to be. She could have got Dick an 
invitation, had she pleased, but was hard-hearted and refrained. 
Chatty did not enjoy it. She said (with truth) that there was 
very little room for dancing ; that to sit outside upon the stairs 
with a gentleman you did not know among a great many other girls 
and men whom you did not know, -was not her idea of a ball ; and 
if this was the London way, she liked a dance in the country 
much better. The time when she did enjoy it was next day, 
when she gave her impressions of it to Dick, who exulted as hav- 
ing not been there, secretly over Mrs. Warrender, who Avould not 
have him asked. Chatty grew witty in the excitement of her 
little revenge on society and fate, which had drifted her into the 
strange country wdthout the ever ready aid to which she had 
grown accustomed of “some one she knew.” “^es, I danced, ’ 
she said, “ now’ and then, as much as w’e could. It was not Lady 
Ascot’s fault, mamma; she introduced a great many gentlemen 
tome; but sometimes I could not catch their names, and when 
I did, how w’as I to remember which W’as Mr. Herbert and w hicli 
w’as Mr. Sidney, when I had never seen either of them before ? 
and gentlemen,” she added, with a little glance (almost saucy : 
Chatty had developed so much) at Dick, “ are so like each other 
in London.” 

At which Dick laughed, not without gratification, wdth a secret 
consciousness that though this little arrow w’as apparently lev- 
elled at him, he was the exception to the rule, the one man who 
was recognizable in any crow'd. “ Yes,” he said, “ we should 
wear little labels with our names. I have heard that suggested 
before.” 

“They put down initials on my programme — I don’t know 
what half of them meant: and I suppose they came and looked 
for me when the dance was going to begin, or perhaps in the 
middle of the dance, or towards the end ; they didn’t seem to be 
very particular,” proceeded Chatty, with a certain exhilaration in 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


237 


the success of her description. “ And how were they to find me 
among such a lot of girls ? I saw two or three prowling about 
looking for me.” 

“ And never made the smallest sign ? ” 

‘ Oh, it is not the right thing for a girl to make any sign, is it, 
mainma ? One can’t say. Here I am 1 If they don’t manage to 
find you, you must just put up with it, though. you may see them 
prowling all the time. It is tiresome when pu want very much 
to dance; but when you are indifferent ” — . 

“ The pleasures of society are all for the indifferent,” said Dick; 

everything comes to you, so the wise people say, when you 
don’t care for it: but my brothers, who are dancing men, don’t 
know how malicious ladies are, who make fun of their prowling. 
I shall remember it next time when I can’t find my partner, and 
imagine her laughing at me in a corner.” 

“ The amusement is after,” said Chatty, with candor. “It is 
funny now when I think of it, but it seemed stupid at the time. 
I don’t think I shall care to go a dance in London again.” 

But as she said these words there escaped a mutual glance from 
two pairs of eyes, one of which said in the twitching of an ey 
lash, “ Unless I am there!” while the other, taken unaware^ 
gave an answer in a soft flash, “ Ah, if you were there ! ” But 
there was nothing said : and Mrs. Warrender, though full of ob- 
servation, never noticed the telegraphic, or shall wo say helio- 
graphic, communication at all. 

This little hinderance only made them better friends. They 
made expeditions to Richmond, where Dick took the ladies out on 
the river; to Windsor and Eton, where Theo and he had both 
been to school. Long before now he had been told the secret 
about Theo, which in the meantime had become less and less of a 
secret, though even now it was not formally made known. Lady 
Markland! Dick had been started by the news, though he declared 
afterwards that he could not tell why: for that it was the most 
natural thing in the world. Had not they been thrown together 
in all kinds of ways; had not Theo been inevitably brought into 
lier society, almost compelled to see her constantly ? 

“ The compulsion was of his own making,” Mrs. War-? 
render said. “ Perhaps Lady Markland, with more experience, 
should have perceived what it was leading to. 

“ It is so difficult to tell what anything is leading to, Especially 


2S8 


A COUJVTliY GIJJVTLUMAN. 


in such matters. What may be but a mutual attraction one day 
becomes a bond that never can be broken the next.” 

Dick’s voice changed while he was speaking. Perhaps he was 
not aware himself of the additional gravity in it, but his audience 
were instantly aware. That was the evening they had gene to 
llichmond; the softest summer evening, twilight just falling; 
Chatty, very silent, absorbed (as appeared) in the responsibilities 
of steering; the conversation going on entirely between her mother 
and Dick, who sat facing them, pulling long, slow, meditative 
strokes. Even when one is absorbed by the responsibilities of the 
steerage, one can enter into all the lights and shades of a conver- 
sation kept tip by two other people, almost better than they can 
do themselves. 

“ That is true in some cases. Not in Theo’s, I think. It seems 
to me that he gave himself over from the first. I am not sure 
that I think her a very attractive Avoman.” 

Oh, yes, mamma!” from Chatty in an undertone. 

“lam not talking of looks. She has a good deal of power about 
her, she will not be easily swayed ; and after having suffered a 
great deal in her first marriage, I think she has very quickly de- 
veloped the power of acting for herself, which some women never 
attain.” 

“ So much the better,” said Dick. “ Theo doesn’t Avant a pup- 
pet of a wife.” 

“ But he wants a wife who Avill give in to him,” said Mrs. War- 
render, slightly shaking her head. 

“I suppose we all do that, in theory: then glide into domestic 
servitude, and like it, and find it the best for us.” 

“ Let us hope you will do that,” she said Avith a smile; “ but not 
Theo, I fear. lie has been used to be made much of. The only 
boy in a family I fear is ahvays spoiled. You have brothers, Mr, 
Cavendish: — and he has a temper which is a little difficult.” 

“ Oh, mamma! ” from Chatty again. “ Theo is always kind.” 

“ That does not make much difference, my dear. When a 
young man is accustomed to be given in to, it is easy to be kind. 
But Avhen he meets for the first time one Avho Avill not give in, Avho 
Avill hold her OAvn. I do not blame her for that; she is in a dif- 
ferent position from a young girl.” 

“And how is it all to be settled?” asked Dick; “where are 
they to live ? how about the child ? ” 

“ All these questions make my heart sink. He is not in the 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 239 

least prepared to meet them. Her name even; she will of course 
keep her name.” 

That alw'ays seems a little absurd: that a woman should keep 
her own name, as they do more or less everywhere but in England 
yes: — well, a Frenchwoman says nee So-and-so; an Italian does 
something still more distinct than that, I am not quite clear what. 
That’s quite reasonable, I think : for why should she wipe out her 
own individuality altogether when she marries ? But to keep 
one husband’s name when you are married to another ” — 

“ It is because of the charm of the title. I suppose when a 
W'^oman has been once called my lady, she objects to coming down 
from those heights. But I think if I were a man, I should not 
like it, and Tlieo will not like it. At the same time there is her 
son, you know, to be considered. I don’t like complications in 
marriages. They bring enough trouble without that.” 

“ Trouble! ” cried Dick, in a tone of lively protest, which was a 
little fictitious. And Chatty, although she did not say anything; 
gave her mother a glance. 

“ Yes, trouble. It breaks as many ties as it makes. How much 
shall I see of Theo, do you think, when this marriage takes place ? 
and yet by nature you would say I had some right to him. Oh, I 
do not complain. It is the course of nature. And Minnie is gone; 
she is entering into all the interests of the Thynnes, by this time, 
and a most bigoted Thyime she will be if there are any special 
opinions in the family. Fancy giving up one’s child to become 
bigoted to another family, whom one doesn’t even know ! ” 

“It seems a little hard, certainly. The ordinary view is that 
nothers are happy when their daughters marry.” 

“ Which is also true in its way: for the mother has a way of 
oeing older than her daughter, Mr. Cavendish, and knows she 
cannot live alw'ays; besides, marriage being the best thing for a 
woman, as most people think, it should be the mother’s duty to do 
everything she can to secure it for her daughter. Yes, I go as 
far as that— in words,” Mrs. Warreuder, added, with a little 
laugh. 

“ But not for her son ? ” 

“ I don’t say that: no, not at all. I should rejoice in Theo’s 
marriage— but for the complications, which I think he is not the 
right person to get through, with comfort. You, now, I think,” 
she added cheerfully, “ might marry Lady— anybody, with a family 
of children, and niake it succeed.” 


240 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Thank you very much for the compliment. I don’t mean to 
try that mode of success,” he said, quickly. 

“ Neither did Theo mean it until lie was brought in contact Avith 
Lady Markland: and who can tell but you, too — Oh. yes, niarriage 
almost always makes trouble; it breaks as well as unites; it is 
very serious; it is like the measles when it gets into a family.” 
Mrs. Warrender felt that the convei-sation was getting much too 
significant, and broke off witli a laugh. “ The evening is delight- 
ful, but I think we should turn homewards. It will be quite late 
before we can get back to town.” 

Dick obeyed without the protest he w'ould have made half an 
liour before. He resumed the talk when he was walking up with 
the ladies to the hotel, where they had left their carriage. “ One 
laughs, I don’t know why,” he sai I, but it is very serious in a 
number of ways. A man when he is in love doesn’t ask himself 
whether he’s the sort of man to make a girl happy. There arc 
some things, you know, which a man has to give up, too. Gener- 
ally, if he hesitates, it seems a sort of treason ; and often he cannot 
tell the reason why. Now Theo will have a number of sacrifices 
to make.” 

“ He is like Jacob, he will think nothing of them for the love 
he bears to Rachel,” said Theo’s mother “I wish that were all.” 

“ But I wish I could make you see it from a man’s point of 
view.” Dick did not himself know what he meant by this con- 
fused speech. He wanted to make some sort of plea for himself, 
but how, or in what words, he did not know. She paused for a 
moment, expecting more, and Chatt*,, on the other side of her 
mother, felt a little puncture of pain, <5he could scarcely tell why. 

There are some things which a man has to give up, too.” What 
did he mean by that ? A little vague offense which flew away, a 
little pain which did not, a sort of needle point which she kept 
feeling all the rest of the evening, came to Chatty from this con- 
versation. And Mrs. Warrender paused, thinking he was going 
to say more. But he said no more, and when he had handed them 
into the carriage, broke out into an entirely new subject, and was 
very gay and amusing all the way home. 

The two ladies did not say a syllable to each other on the 
subject, neither had they said anything to each other about Dick, 
generally, except that he was very nice, that it was kind of him 
to take so much trouble, and so forth. Whether experienced 
mothers do discuss with their daughters what So-and-so means, 
or whether he means anything, as Dick supposed, is a question 
I am not prepared to enter into. But Mrs. Warrender had said 
nothing to Chatty on the subject, and did not now: though i: 
cannot be said that she did not ponder it much Li her heart. 


XXXII. 


The ladies were in town three weeks, which brought them 
from June to July, when London began to grow hot and dusty, 
and the season to approach its close. They were just about to 
leave town, though whether to continue their dissipations by 
going to the seaside, or to return to Highcombe and put their 
future residence in order, they had not as yet made up their 
minds. Cavendish gave his vote for the seaside. “ Of course you 
mean to consult me, and to give great weight to my opinion,” he 
said. “What I advise is the sea, and I will tell you why: I am 
obliged to go to Portsmouth about some business. If you were at 

the Isle of Wight, say, or Southsea ” 

“ That would be very pleasant: but we must not allow ourselves 
to be tempted, not even by your company,” said Mrs. Warrender, 
who began to fear there might be enough of this. “ We are going 
home to set our house in order, and to see if perhaps Theo has 
need of us. And then the Thynnes are coming home.” 

“ Is it Miss Warrender who has developed into the Thynnes ? ” 
“ Indeed it is; that is how everybody inquires for her now. I 
have got quite used to the name. That is one of the drawbacks 
of marrying one’s daughters, which I was telling you of. One’s 
Minnie becomes in a moment the Eustace Thynnes! ” 

They were not a smiling party that evening, and Mrs. Warren- 
der’s little pleasantry fell flat. It flew, perhaj)s, across the mind 
of all that Chatty might bo changed, in a similar way, into the 
Cavendishes. Dick grew hot and cold when the suggestion 
flashed through him. Then it was that he recollected how guilty 
he had been, and how little his reflections had served him. He 
who had determined to call but once, to go with them once to the 
play, had carried out his resolution so far that the once had been 
always. And now the time of recompense w'as coming. The fool’s 
paradise was to be emptied of its tenants. He went away very 
gloomy, asking himself many troubled questions. It was not that 
he had been unaware, as time went on , what it was that went 


242 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


along with it, — a whole little drama of simple pleasure, of days 
and evenings spent together, of talks and expeditions. Innocent ? 
Ah, more than innocent, the best and sweetest thing in his life, 

if But that little monosyllable makes all the difference. It 

was coming to an end now, they were going away; and Dick had 
to let them go, without any conclusion to this pretty play in which 
he had played his part so successfully. Oh, he was not the first 
man who had done it! not the first who had worn a lover’s looks 
and used all a lover’s assiduities, and then — nothing more. Per- 
haps that was one of the worst features in his behavior, to him- 
self. To think that he should be classed with the men who are 
said to have been amusing themselves! and Chatty placed in the 
position of the victim, on whose behalf people were sorry or in- 
dignant! When he thought thft there were some who might 
presume to pity her, and who would say of himself that he had 
behaved ill, the shock came upon him with as much force as if he 
had never thought of it before ; although he had thought of it, 
and reflected upon how to draw out of the intercourse which was 
so pleasant, before he gave himself up to it with an abandon 
which he could not account for, which seemed now like despera- 
tion. Desperation was no excuse. He saw the guilt of it fully, 
without self-deception, only when he had done all the harm that 
was possible, yielded to every temptation, and now liad himself 
arrived at the end of possibility. To repent in these circumstances 
is not uncommon; there is nothing original in it. Thousands of 
men have done it before him, — repented when they could sin no 
more. For a moment it flashed across his mind to go and throw' 
himself on Mrs. Warrender’s mercy and tell her all, and make 
wdiat miserable excuse he could for himself. Was it better to do 
that, to part himself forever from Chatty; or to let them think 
badly of him, to have it supposed that he had trifled or amused 
himself, or whatever miserable w'ords the gossips chose to use, 
and yet leave a door open by which he might some time, perhaps, 
some time approach her again ? Sometime! after she had for- 
gotten him, after his unworthiness had been proved to her, and 
some other fellow, some happier man who had never been ex- 
posed to such a fate as had fallen upon him, some smug Pharisee 
(this fling at the supposed rival of the future was very natural and 
harmed nobody) had cut him out of all place in her heart! It 
was so likely that Chatty would go on waiting for him, thinking 
of him for years, perhaps, the coxcomb that he was! 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


243 


“ I said very suddenly that we must go home,” said Mrs. War- 
render, after he was gone. “ You did not think me hard, Chatty ? 
It seemed to me the best.” 

Oh, no, mamma,” said Chatty, with a slight faltering. 

“We have seen a great deal of Mr. Oavendish, and he has been 
very nice, but I did not like the idea of going to the Isle of 
Wight.” 

” Oh, no, mamma,” Chatty repeated, with more firmness. “ I 
did not wish it at all.” 

“ I am very glad you think with me, my dear. He has been 
very nice; he has made us enjoy our time in town much more 
than we should have done. But of course that cannot last for- 
ever, and I do really think now that we should go home.” 

” I have always thought so,” said Chatty. She was rather pale, 
and there was a sort of new-born dignity about her, with which 
her mother felt that she was unacquainted. “ It has been very 
pleasant, but I am quite ready. And then Minnie will be coming 
back as you said.” 

“Yes.” Then Mrs. Warrender burst into a laugh which might 
as well have been a fit of crying. “ But you must prepare your- 
self to see not Minnie, only the Eustace Thynnes,” she said. And 
then the mother and daughter kissed one another and retired 
to their respective rooms, where Chatty was a long time going to 
bed. She sat and thought, with her pretty hair about her shoulders, 
going over a great many things, recalling a great many simple lit- 
tle scenes and words said, which were but words after all; and 
then of a sudden the tears came, and she sat and cried very quiet- 
ly, even in her solitude making as little fuss as possible, with an 
ache of wonder at the trouble that had come upon her, and a keen 
pang of shame at the thought that she had expected more than 
was coming, more perhaps that had ever been intended. A man 
is not ashamed of loving where he is not loved, however angry he 
may be w’ith himself or the woman who has beguiled him ; but 
the sharpest smart in a girl’s heart is the shame of having given 
what was not asked for, what was not wanted. When those tears 
had relieved her heart. Chatty put up her hair very neatly for the 
night, just as she always did, and after a while slept, — much bet- 
ter than Dick. 

He came next day, however, for a final visit, and the day after 
to see them away, without any breach in the confidence and 
friendship with which they regarded each other. There might be, 


244 


-4 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


pcrliaps, a faint, almost imperceptible difference in Chatty, a li(!le 
dignity like that which her mother had discovered in her, somc- 
thing that was not altogether the simple girl, younger than her 
years, whom Mrs. Warrender had brought to town. On the very 
last morning of all, Dick had also a look which was not very easv 
to be interpreted. While they were on their w’ay to tlie station 
lie began suddenly to talk of Underwood and the Wilberforces, as 
if he had forgotten them all this time, and now suddenly remem- 
bered that there were such people in the world. “ Did I ever tell 
you,” he said, “ that one of tlie houses in the parish belongs to an 
uncle of mine, who bought it merely as an investment, and let it ?” 

“ We were talking of that,” said Mrs. Warrender. “Mr. Wil- 
berforce lioped you had persuaded your uncle to leave the drain- 
age alone in oi-der to make a nuisance and drive undesirable 
tenants away.” 

He laughed in a hurried, breathless way, then said quickly, 
“ Is it true that the people who Avere there are gone ? ” 

“ Quite true. They seem to have melted away without any one 
knowing, in a single night. They were not desirable people.” 

“ So I heard: and gone without leaving any sign ? ” 

‘ Have they not paid their rent ? ” said Mrs. Warrender. 

‘Oh, I don’t mean to say that. I know nothing about that. 
My uncle ’’—and liere he stopped, with an embarrassment which, 
though Mrs. Warrender was an unsuspicions Avoman, attracted 
her notice. “ I mean,” said Cavendish, perceiving this, and put- 
ting force upon himself, “ he Avill of course be glad to get rid of 
people Avho apparently could have done his property no good.” 

And after this his spirits seemed to rise a little. He told them 
that he had some friends near Highcombe, Avho sometimes in the 
autumn offered him a few daj's’ shooting. If he got such an in- 
vitation this autumn might he come? “It is quite a handy dis- 
tance fioin London, just the Saturday-to-Monday distance,” he 
added, looking at Mrs. Warrender with an expression wliich meant 
a great deal, which had in it a question, a supplication. And she 
was so imprudent a woman! and no shadow of IMinnie at hand to 
restrain her. It Avas on her very lips to give the invitation he 
asked. Some good angel, of a class corresponding in the celestial 
world to that of Minnie in this, only stopped her in time, and gave 
a little obliqueness to the response. 

“I hope we shall see you often,” she said, which was pleasant 
but discouraging; and then began to talk about the Eustace 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


245 


Thyimes, who were at present of great use to her as a diversion 
from any more embarrassing subject of conversation. Chatty 
scarcely spoke during this drive, whicli seemed to her the last they 
would take together: the streets flying behind them, the scenes of 
the brief drama falling back into distance, the tranquillity of home 
before, and all this exciting episode of life becoming as if it had 
never been, were the thoughts that occupied her mind. She had 
settled all that in her evening meditation. It was all over; this 
was what she said to herself. She must not allow even to her own 
heart any thought of renewal, any idea that the break was tempo- 
rary. Chatty was aware that she had received all his overtures, 
all his amiabilities (which was what it seemed to come to), with 
great and unconcealed pleasure. To think that he had nothing 
but civility in his mind all the time gave a blow to her pride which 
was mortal. She did not wear her pride upon her sleeve, though 
she had 'worn her heart upon it. Her nature, indeed, was full of 
the truest humility; but there was a latent pride which, when it 
was reached, vibrated through all her being. No more, she was 
saying to herself. Oh, never more. She had been deceived, 
though most likely he had never wished to deceive her. It was 
she who had deceived herself; but that was not possible, ever 
again. 

“ We have not thanked you half enough,” said Mrs. Warrender, 
as he stood at the door of the railway carriage. “ I will tell Theo 
that you have been everything to us. If you are as good to all the 
m others and sisters of all your old schoolfellows ” — 

“ You do me a great wrong,” he said, “ as if I thought of you 
as the mother of”— His eyes strayed to Chatty, who met them 
with a smile which was quite steady. She was a little pale, but 
that was all. “ Some time,” he added hastily, holding Mrs, War- 
render’s hand, “ I may be able to explain myself a little better 
than that.” 

“Shall I say if you are as kind to all forlorn ladies astray in 
London ? ” 

Dick’s face clouded over as if (she thouglit) he were aboiit to 
cry. Men do not cry in England: but there is a kind of mortifica- 
tion, humiliation, a sense of being persistently misunderstood, 
and of having no possibility of mending matters, which is so in- 
supportable that the lip must quiver under it, even when garnish- 
ed with a mustache. “ I hope you don’t really think that of me. 


246 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


he cried. “ Don’t! there is no time to tell you how very different 
— But surely you know — something very unlike that ” — 

The train was in motion already, and Cliatty had shaken hands 
with him before. She received the last look of his eyes, half in- 
dignant, appealing, though in woi ds it was to her mother he was 
speaking; but made no sign. xVnd it was only Mrs. Warrender 
who looked out of the window and waved her hand t<‘ him as he 
was left behind. Chatty — Chatty who was so gentle, so little apt 
to take anything upon her, even to judge for herself, was it pos- 
sible that on this point she was less soft-hearted than her mother ? 
This thought went through him like an aiTow as he stood and saw 
the carriages glide away in a long curving line. She was gone, 
and he was left behind. She was gone; was it in resentment, was 
it in disdain? thinking of him in his true aspect as a false lover, 
believing him to have worn a false semblance, justly despising him 
for an attempt to play upon her ? Was this possible ? He 
thought (with that oblique sort of literary tendency of liis) of 
Hamlet with the recorder. Can you play upon this pipe — and yet 
you think you can play upon me! As a matter of fact there could 
nothing have been found in heaven or earth less like Hamlet than 
Chatty Warrender; but a lover has strange misperceptions. The 
steady, soft glance, the faint smile, not like the usual warm beam- 
ing of her simple face, seemed to him to express a faculty of seeing 
through and through hirj- ~hlch is not always given to the great- 
est philosophers. And he stood there humiliated to the very dust 
by this mild creature, whom he had loved in spite of himself, to 
whom even in loving her he had attributed no higher gifts, per- 
haps had even been tenderly disrespectful of as not clever. Was 
she the one to see through him now ? 

If she only knew! but when Dick, feeling sadly injured and 
wounded, came to this thought, it so stung him that he turned 
round on the moment, and, neglecting all the seductions of wait- 
ing cabmen, walked quickly, furiously, to Lincoln’s Inn, which he 
h'd been sadly neglecting. If she knew everything! It appeared 
to Dick that Chatty’s clear dove’s eyes (to which he all at once had 
attributed an insight and perceptions altogether above them)would 
slay him with the disdainful dart which pierces through and 
through subterfuge and falsehood. That he should have ventured, 
knowing what he knew, to approach her at all with the semblance 
of love, that he should have dared — oh, he knew, well he knew, 
how, once the light of clear trutli was let down upon i(, his con- 


A COUNTIir GENTLEMAN. 


217 


duct would appear! — not the mere trifler who had amused him-elf 
and meant no more, not the fool of society, who made a w'oman 
think he loved her, and “behaved badly, and left her plante Ik 
What were these contemptible images to the truth! He shrank 
into himself as he thouglit this, and skulked along. He felt like a 
man exposed and ashamed, a man whom true men would avoid. 
“ Put in every honest hand a wliip,” — ah, no, that was not wanted. 
Chatty’s eyes, dove’s eyes, too gentle to wound, eyes that knew 
not how to look unkindly, to conceal a sentiment, to veil a false- 
hood — one look from Chatty’s eyes would be enough. 

Chatty knew nothing of the tragic terror which liad come upon 
him at the mere apprehension of this look of hers. She had no 
thought of any tragedy, except that unknoAvn to men which often 
becomes the central fact in a life such as hers; the tragedy of an 
unfinished chapter, the no-ending of an episode which had prom- 
ised to be the drama in which almost every human creature 
figures herself (or himself) as the chief actor, one time or other. 
The drama indeed had existed, it had run almost all its course; 
for the time it lasted it had been more absorbing than anything 
else in the world. The greatest historical events beside it had 
been but secondary. Big London, the greatest city in the world, 
had served only as a little bosquet of evergreens in a village gar- 
den might have done, as the background and scene for it. But it 
had no end; the time of the action was accomplished, the curtain 
had fallen, and the lights had been put out, but the comedy had 
come to no conclusion. Comedy — tragedy; it does not matter 
much which wmrd yoTi use. The scenes had all died away in 
incompleteness, and there had been no end. To many a gentle 
lif ' such as that of Chatty this is all that comes beyond the level 
of the ordinary and common. It Avas Avitlr a touch of insight 
altogether beyond her usual intellectual capacity that she real- 
ized this, as she traveled \’ery quietly Avith her mother from 
London to Ilighcombe, not a very long way. 

Mrs. Warrender Avas very silent, too. She had meant the visit 
to town to be one of pleasure merely,— pleasure for herself, 
change after the long monotony, and pleasure to her child, Avho 
had never knoAvn anything but tliat monotony. It Avas not, this 
little epoch of time only three Aveeks long, to count for anything. 
It was to be a holiday and no more. xVnd lo! Avith that inexplic- 
ableness. that unforeseenness, which is so curious a quality of 
human life, it had become a turning point of existence, the pivot 


248 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


perhaps upon which Chatty’s being might hang. Mrs. Warrendei 
was not so decided as Chatty. She saw nothing final in the part- 
ing. She was able to imagine that secondary causes, something 
about money, some family arrangements that would have to be 
made, had prevented any further step on Dick’s part. To her 
Ihe drama indeed was not ended, but only postponed: the curtain 
had fallen legitimately upon the first act without prejudice to those 
which were to follow. She did not talk, for Cbatty’s silence, her 
unusual dignity, her retirement into herself, had produced a great 
effect upon her mother; but her mind was not moved as Chatty’s 
was, and she was able to think with pleasure of the new lunnc 
awaiting them, and of what they were to find there. The Eustace 
Thynnes ! she said to herself, with a laugh, thanking Providence 
within herself that there had been no Minnie to inspect the prog- 
ress of the relations between Dick and Chatty, and probably to 
deliver her opinion very freely on that subject and on her mother’s 
responsibility. Then there was the more serious chapter of Theo 
and his affairs, which must have progressed in the mean time. 
Mrs. Warrender caught herself up with a little fright as she 
thought of the agitation and doubt which wrapped the future of 
both her children. It w'as a wonderful relief to turn to the only 
point from which there w^as any amusement to be had, the visit of 
the Eustace Thynnes. 


XXXIII. 


The return of the Warrenders to their home was not the usual 
calm delight of settling again into one’s well-known place. The 
house at Highcombe was altogether new to their experiences, and 
meant a life in every way different, as well as different surround- 
ings. It was a tall, red brick house, with a flight of steps up to 
the door, and lines of small, straight, twinkling windows facing 
immediately into the street, between which and the house there 
was no interval even of a grass plot or area. The garden extended 
to the right with a long stretch of high wall, but the house had 
been built at a period when people had less objection to a street 
than in later times. The rooms within were of a good size; and 
some of them were paneled to the ceiling, in conformity with an 
old-fashioned idea of comfort and warmth. The drawing-room 
was one of these, a large, oblong room to the front, with a smaller 
one divided from it by folding-doors, which looked out upon the 
garden. It possessed, as its great distinction, a pretty marble 
mantelpiece, which some one of a previous generation had brought 
from Italy. It is sad to be obliged to confess that the paneling 
here had been painted a warm white, like the color of a French 
salon, with old and dim pictures of no particular merit let in here 
and there, — pictures which would have been more in keeping 
with the oak of the original than with the present color of the 
walls. The house had been built by a Warrender, in the begin- 
ning of the eighteenth century; though it had been occupied by 
strangers often, and let to all sorts of people, a considerable 
amount the furniture, and all the decorations, still belonged to that 
period. The time had not come for the due appreciation of these 
relics of ancestral taste. Chatty thought them all old-fashioned, 
and would gladly have replaced them by fresh chairs and tables 
from the upholsterer’s ; but this was an expense not to be thought 
of, and, perhaps, even to eyes untrained in any rules of art, there 
was something harmonious in the combination. Something har- 


250 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


monious, too, with Chatty’s feelings was in the air of old tran- 
quillity and long established use and wont. The stillness of the 
house was as the stillness of ages. Human creatures had come 
and gone, as the days went and came, sunshine coming in at one 
moment, darkness falling the next, nothing altering the calm 
routine, the established order. Pains, and fevers, and heart- 
breaks, and death itself would disappear and leave no sign, 
and all 'remain the same in the quaint rose scented room. The 
quiet overawed Chatty, and yet was congenial. She felt her- 
self to have come “home” to it, with all illusions over. It 
was not just an ordinary coming back after a holiday, — it was a 
return, a settling down for life. 

It would be difficult to explain how it was that this conviction 
had taken hold of her so strongly. It was but a month since she 
hadleft the Warren with her mother, with sojne gentle anticipa- 
tions of pleasure, but none that were exaggerated or excessive. 
All that was likely to happen, so far as she knew', was that dinner 
party at Mrs. Benson’s, and a play or two, and a problematical 
ball. This w'as all that the ‘‘vortex,’’ meant about which her 
mother had laughed ; she had not any idea at that time that the 
vortex would mean Dick Cavendish. But now that she fully un. 
derstood what it meant, and now' that it was alt over, and her 
agitated little bark had come out of it, and had got upon the 
smooth, calm waters again, there had come to Chatty a verv differ- 
ent conception both of the present and the past. All the old 
quiet routine of existence seemed to her now" a preface to that 
moment of real life. She had been working up to it vaguely, 
without knowing it. And now it had ended, and this was the 
Afterwards. She had come back— after. These words had to 
her a!i absolute meaning. Perhaps it was want of imagination 
which made it so impossible for her to carry forward her thoughts 
to any possible repetition, any sequel of w'hat had been; or per- 
haps some communication, unspoken, unintended, from the mind 
of Cavendish had affected her’s and given a certainty of conclu- 
sion, of the impossibility of further development. However that 
might be, her mind w"as entirely made up on the subject. She 
had lived (for three w'eeks) and it was over. And now existence 
W"as all Afterwards. She had found scarcely any time for her 
habitual occupations while she was in London; now there would 
be time for everything Afterwards is long, when one is only 
twenty-four, and it requires a great deal of muslin work and benev- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


251 


olence to fill it up in a way that will be satisfactory to the soul ; 
but still, to ladies in the country it is a very well known state, and 
has to be faced, and lived through all the same. To a great many 
people life is all afternoon, though not in the sense imagined by 
the poet: not the lotus-eating drowsiness and content, but a course 
of little hours that lead to nothing, that have no particular mo- 
tive except that mild duty which means doing enough trimming 
for your new set of petticoats and carrying a pudding or a little 
port wine to the poor girl dying of consumption in the lane be- 
hind your house. This was the Afterwards of Chatty’s time, and 
she settled down to it, knowing it to be the course of nature. Now- 
adays, matters have improved: there is always lawn tennis and 
often ambulance lectures, and far more active parish work. But 
even in those passive days it could be supported, and Chatty ma ^e 
up her mind to it with a great, but silent courage. Yet it made 
her very quiet, she who was quiet by nature. The land where it is 
always afternoon chills at first and subdues all lively sentiments. 
The sense of having no particular interest took possession of her 
mind as if it had been an absorbing interest, and drew a veil be* 
tw'een her and the other concerns of life. 

This was not at all tlie case with Mrs. Warrender, who came 
home with all the agreeable sensations of a new beginning, ready 
to take up new lines of existence, and to make a cheerful centre 
of life for herself and all who .surrounded her If any woman 
should feel with justice that she has reached the Afterwards, and 
has done with her active career, it sliould be the woman who has 
just settled down after her husband’s death to the humbler house 
provided for her widowhood, apart from all her old occupations 
and responsibilities. But in reality there was no such sentiment 
in her mind. “You’ll in your girls again be courted.” She had 
hanging about her the pleasant reflection of tliat wooing, never 
put into words, with which Dick Cavendish had filled tlie atmos- 
phere, and which had produced upon the chief object of it so very 
different an effect; and she had, to stimulate her thoughts the 
less pleasurable excitement of Theo’s circumstances, and of all 
that was going on at Markland, a romance in which her interest 
was almost painful. The Eustace Thynnes did not count for 
much, for their love-making had been very mild and regular ; but 
still, perhaps, they aided in the general quicke.ning of life. She 
had three different histories thus going on aumnd her, and she 
wa: })laced in a new atmosphere, in which she had to phiv a part 


252 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


of her own. When Chatty and she sat down together in the new 
drawipg-roora for the first time with their work and their plans, 
Mrs. Warrender’s talk was of their new neighbors and the capa 
bilitie^ of the place. “ The rector is not a stupid man,” she said, 
in a reflective tone. The proposition was one which gently 
startled Chatty. She lifted her mild eyes from her work, witli a 
surprised look. 

‘‘ It would be very sad for ns if he were stupid, she said. 

“ And Mrs. Keacham still less so. What I am thinking of is 
society, not edification. Then there is Colonel Travers, whom 
we used to see occasionally at home, the brother, you know, of 

. An old soldier is always a pleasant element in a little place. 

The majority will of course be women like ourselves. Chatty.” 

“ Yes, mamma, there are always a great many ladies about 
Highcombe.” 

Mrs, Warrender gave forth a little sigh. “ In a country neigh- 
borhood we swamp everything,” she said; “ it is a pity. Too 
many people of one class are always monotonous; but we must 
struggle against it. Chatty.” 

“ Dear mamma, isn’t ladies’ society the best for us.? Minnie 
always said so. She said it was a dreadful thing for a girl to think 
of gentlemen.” 

“ Minnie always was an oracle. To think of gentlemen whom 
you were likely to fall in love with, and marry, perhaps— but I 
don’t think there are many of that class here.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Chatty, returning to her work, “ at least I hope 
not.” 

“ I am not at all of your opinion, my dear. I should like a 
number of them; and nice girls too. I should not wish to keep 
all these dangerous personages for you.” 

“Mamma!” said Chatty, with a soft reproachl'ul glance. It 
seemed a desecration to her to think that ever again— that ever 
another — 

“ That gives a little zest to all the middle-aged talks. It amuses 
other people to see a little romance going on. You were always 
rather shocked at your light-minded mother. Chatty.” 

“Mamma! it might be perhaps very sad for— for those most 
concerned, though it amused you.” 

“ I hope not, my darling. You take things too seriously. There 
is, to be sure, a painful story now and then, but very rarely. You 
must not think that men are deceivers ever as the song says,” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


253 


“ Oh, no,” said Chatty, elevating her head with simple pride, 
though without meeting her mother’s eyes, “ that is not what 1 
would say. But why talk of such things at all ? why put ro- 
mances, as you call them, into people’s heads? People maybe 
kind and friendly without anything more.” 

Mrs. Warrender here paused to study the gentle countenance 
which was half hidden from her, bending over the muslin work, 
and for the first time gained a little glimpse into what was going 
on in Chatty’s heart. The mother had long known that her own 
being was an undiscovered country for her children; but it was 
new' to her and a startling discovery that perhaps this innocent 
creature, under her shadow, had also a little sanctuary of her own, 
into which the eyes most near to her had never looked. She 
marked the little signs of meaning quite unusual to her composed 
and gentle child — the slight quiver which was in Chatty’s bent 
head, the determined devotion to her work which kejit her face 
unseen — wdth a curious confusion in her mind. She had felt sure 
that Dick Cavendish liad made a difference in life to Chatty; but 
she had not thought of this in any but a hopeful and cheerful 
way. She was more startled now' than she dared say. Had there 
been any explanation between them wdiich sh^ had not been told 
of ? Was there any obstacle she did not know of ? Pier mind 
w'as throw’ll into great bewilderment, too great to permit of any 
sudden exercise of her judgment upon the little mystery, if mys- 
tery there w'as. 

“ I did not mean to enter into such deep questions,” she said, 
in a tone wliich she felt to be apologetic. “ I meant only a little 
society to keep us going. Though w'e did not go out very much 
in London, still there was just enough to make the blank more 
evident if w'e see nobody here.” 

Chatty’s heart protested against this view'; for her part she 
w'ould have liked that life wdiich had lasted three weeks to re- 
main as it W’as, unlike anything else in lier experience, a thing 
W’hich w^as over and could return no more. Had she not been say- 
ing to herself tliat all that remained to her was the Afterw’ards, 
the long gray twilight upon which no other sun would rise ? In 
her lack of imagination, the only imagination she had known be- 
came more absolute than any reality, a thing which, once left be- 
hind, would never be renewed again. She felt a certain scorn of 
the attempt to make feeble imitations of it, or even to make up 


254 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


for that light which never was on sea or shore, by any little arti- 
ficial illuminations. A sort of gentle fury, a mild passion of re- 
sistance, rose within her at the thought of making up for it. Siie 
did not wish to make up for it; the blank could not be made less 
evident whatever any one might do or say. But all this Chatty 
shut up in her own heart. She made no reply, but bent her head 
more and more over her muslin work, and worked faster and faster, 
with the tears which she never would consent to shed collecting 
hot and salt behind her eyes. 

Mrs. Warrender was silent, too. She was confounded by the 
new phase of feeling, imperfectly revealed to her, and filled with 
wonder, and self-reproach, and sympathy. Had she been to blame 
in leaving her child exposed to an influence which had proved 
too much for her peace of mind ?— that was the well-worn con- 
ventional phrase, and the only one that seemed to answer the 
occasion,— too much for her peace of mind ! The mother, casting 
stealthy glances at her daughter, so sedulously, nervously busy, 
could only grope at a comprehension of what was in Chatty’s 
mind. She thought it was the uncertainty, the excitement of 
suspense, and all that feverish commotion which sometimes arises 
in a woman’s mind when the romance of her life comes to a sud- 
den pause, and silence follows the constant interchange of words 
and looks, in which so much meaning had lain— and a doubt 
whether anything more will ever follow, or whether the pause is 
to be forever, turns all the sweeter meditations into a whirl of 
confusion and anxiety and shame, A mother is so near that the 
reflection of her child’s sentiments gets into her mind, but very 
often with such prismatic changes and oblique catchings of the 
light that even sympathy goes wrong. Mrs. Warrender thus 
caught from Chatty the reflection of an agitated soul in which 
there was all the sensitive shame of a love that is given unsought, 
mingled with a tender indignation against the offender, who per- 
haps had never meant anything but friendship. But the mother 
on this point took a different vietv, and there rose up in her mind 
on the moment a hundred cheerful, hopeful plans (o bring him 
back and to set all right. Naturally there was not a woi'd said on 
the subject, whicli was far too delicate for words; but this was 
how Mrs. Warrender followed, as she believed with an intensity 
which was full of tenderness, the current of her daughters’ 
thoughts. 

Tet these were not Chatty’s thoughts at all. If she felt any ex- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


255 


citement, it was directed against those plans for cheering her and 
the idea that aiiy little contrivances of society could ever take the 
place of what was past, conjoined with a sort of jealousy of that 
past, lest any one should interfere with it, or attempt to blur the 
perfect out line of it as a thing which had been, and could be no 
more, nor any copy of it. This was what the soul most near her 
own did not divine. They sat together in the silence of the sum- 
mer parlor, the cool sweet room full of flowers, with the July sun 
shut out, but the warm air coming in, so full of mutual love and 
sympathy, and yet with but so disturbed and confused an appre- 
hension each of the other. After some time had passed thus, 
without disturbance, nothing but the softened sounds of morning 
tratfic in the quiet street, a slow cart passing, an occasional car- 
riage, the voices of the children just freed from school, there came 
the quick sound of a horse’s hoofs, a pause before the door, and 
the bell echoing into the silence of the house. 

“That must be Theo!” cried Mrs. Warrender. “I was sure 
he would come to-day. Chatty, after luncheon, will you leave us 
a little, my dear ? Not that we have any secrets from you,— but 
he will speak more freely, if he is alone with me.” 

“ I should have known that, mamma, without being told.” 

“ Dear Chatty, you must not be displeased. You know many 
things, more than I had ever thought.” 

“ Displeased, mamma! ” 

“ Hush, Chatty, here is my poor boy.” 

Her poor boy! the triumphant lover, the young man at the 
height of his joy and pride. They both rose to meet him, eager to 
take the tone which should be most in harmony with his. But 
Mrs. Warrender had a pity in her heart for Theo which she did 
not feel for Chatty, perhaps because in her daughter’s case her 
sympathy was more complete. 



XXXIV. 


Warrender met his mother and sister with a face somewhat 
cloudy, which, hovv'ever, he did his best to clear as he came in, in 
response to their pleasure at the siglit of him. It did not become 
him, in his position, to look otherwise than blessed; but a man 
has less power of recognizing and adapting himself to this neces- 
sity than a woman. He did his best, however, to take an interest 
in the house; to have all its conveniences pointed out to him, and 
the beauty of the view over the garden, and the coolness of the 
drawing-room in which they sat. What pleased him still more, 
however, or at least called forth a warmer response, was the dis- 
covery of some inconveniences which had already been remarked. 

I am very glad you have told me,” he said. “ I must have every- 
thing put right for you, mother. A thing that can be put right by 
bricks and mortar is so easy a matter.” 

“ It is the easiest way, perhaps, of setting things right,” she 
said, not without an anxious glance ; “ but even bricks and mor- 
tar are apt to lead you further than you think. You remember 
Mr. Briggs, in Punch ? ” 

“ They will not lead me too far,” said Theo. 1 am all in the 
way of renovation and restoration. You should see — or rather, 
you should not see, for I am afraid you would be sho«ked — oui^ 
own house ” — 

“ What are you doing ? No, I should not be shocked. I neve* 
was a devotee of the Warren. I always thought there were a 
great many improvements I could make.” 

“Oh, mamma!” 

. “ You must remember. Chatty, I was not born to it, like yoR 
What are you doing ? Are you building? Your letters were not 
very explicit, my dear.” 

“ You shall see. I cannot describe. I have not the gift.” Here 
the cloud came again over Theo’s face — the cloud w’hich he had 
pushed back on his entrance as if it had been a veil. “ We have 
let in a little light, at all events,” he said: “that will always be 
something to the good. Now, mother, let me have some lunch; 
for I cannot stay above an hour or so. I have to see Longstaffe. 
There has been a great deal to do.” 


258 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Mr. Longstaffe, 1 am sure, will not give you any trouble that 
he can help.” 

“ lie is giving me a great deal of trouble,” said the young maii^ 
with lowering brows, Then he cleared up again with an effort. 

“ You have not told me anything about your doings in town.” 

“ Oh, we did a great deal in town.” Here Mrs. Warrender 
paused for a moment, feeling that neither did the auditor care to 
hear, nor the person concerned in those doings care to have them 
told. Between these two, her words were arrested Chatty's 
head was more than ever bent over her muslin, and Theo had 
walked to the window, and was looking out with the air of a man 
whose thoughts were miles away. No one said anything more 
for a full minute, when he suddenly came back, so to speak, and 
said with a sort of smile,— 

“So you were very gay '?” as if in the mean time she had been 
pouring an account of many gayeties into his ear. 

So far as Theo was concerned, it was evidently quite unneces- 
sary to say any more; but there was now the other silent listener 
to think of, who desired that not a word should be said, yet 
would be equally keen fto note and put a meaning to the absence 
of remark. Between the two, the part of Mrs. Warrender w'as a 
hard on':. She said, wdiich perhaps was the last thing she ought 
to have said, “We saw a great deal of your friend Mr. Cavendish.” 

“ Ah, Dick! Yes, he’s about town I suppose— pretending to 
do law, and doing society. Mother, if you want me to stay to 
luncheon — ” 

“ I will go and see after it,” said Chatty. She gave her mother 
a look, as she put down her work. A look— what did it mean ? 
A reproach for having mentioned him ? an entreaty to ask more 
about him ? Mrs. Warrender could not tell. When they were 
left alone, her son’s restlessness increased. He felt, it was evident, 
the dangers of being left with her tHe-a-tHe. 

“ I hope you did n’t see too much of liim,” he said, hastily, as 
if seizing upon the first subject he could think of to defend him- 
self. “Cavendish is a fellow with a story, and no one knows 
exactly what it is.” 

“ I am sure he is honorable and good,” said Mrs. Warrender; 
and then she cried, “Theo! don’t keep me in this suspense — 
there is something amiss.” 

He came at once and sat down opposite to her, gazing at her 
across the little table. “ Yes ? ” he said, with defiance. “ You 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 259 

have made up your mind to that beforehand. I could see it in 
your eyes. What should be amiss ? ” 

“ Theo, you do me wrong. I had made up my mind to nothing 
beforehand — but I am very anxious. I know there must be diffi- 
culties. What are your negotiations with Mr. Longstaffe ? Is it 
about settlements ? Is it” — 

“ Longstaffe is an old fool, mother: that is about what it is.” 

“ No, my dear. I am sure he is a kind friend, who has your 
interests at heart.” 

‘ Whose interests ?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “ You must 
remember there are too sides to the question. 1 should say that 
the interests of a husband and wife were identical; but that is 
not the view taken by those wretched li4tle pettifogging country 
lawyers.” 

“ Dear Theo, it is never, I believe, the view taken by the law. 
They have to provide against the possibility of everything that is 
bad ; they must suppose that it is possible for every man to turn 
out a domestic tyrant.” 

“ Every man! ” he said, with a smile of scorn. “ Do you think 
I should be careful about that ? They may bind me down as 
much as they please: I have held out my hands to them ready for 
the fetters. What I do grudge,” he went on, as if, the floodgates 
once opened, the stream could not be restrained, “ is all that they 
are trying to impose upon her: giving her the appearance of feel- 
ings entirely contrary to her nature; making her out to be under 
the sway of — That’s what I can’t tolerate. If I knew her less, 
I might imagine — But thank God, I am sure on that point,” he 
added, with a sharpness in his voice which did not breathe con- 
viction to his mother’s ear. 

She laid her hand upon his arm, soothing him. “ You must 
remember that, in the circumstances, a woman is not her own 
mistress. Oh, Theo, that was always the difficulty I feared. You 
are so sensitive, so ready to start aside like a restive horse, so in- 
tolerant of anything that seems less than perfect.” 

“Ain T so, mother ?” He gathered her hand into his, and laid 
down his head upon it, kissing it tremulously. “ God bless you 
for saying so. ]My own mother says it. — a fastidious fool, always 
looking out for faults, putting meanings to everything, starting at 
a touch, like a restive horse.” 

How it was that she understood him, and perceived that to put 
his faults in the clearest light was the best thing she could do for 


260 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. 


him, it would be hard to tell. She laid her other hand upon his 
bent head. “ Yes, my dear, yes, my dear, that was always your 
fault; if your taste was offended, if anything jarred, — though it 
might be no more than was absolutely essential, no more than 
common necessity required.” 

“ Mother, you do me more good than words can say. Yes, I 
I know, I know. I never have friends for that cause. I have al- 
ways wanted more, more” — 

“ More than any one could give, she said, softly. “ Those 
whom you love should be above humanity, Theo; their feet should 
not tread the ground at all. I have always been afraid, not know- 
ing how you would take it when necessary commonplaces came 

in.” 

“ I wonder,” he said, raising his head, “ whether mothers are 
always as perfe^ct comforters as you are. That was what I wanted: 
but nobody in the world could have said it but you.” 

“ Because,” she said, carrying out her rle unhesitatingly, 
though to her own surprise and without knowing why, ” only 
your mother could know your faults, without there being the 
smallest possibility that any fault could ever stand between you 
and me.” 

His eyes had the look of being strained and hot, yet there 
seemed a little moisture in the corners, — a moisture which corre- 
sponded with the slight quiver in his lip, rather than with the 
light in his eyes. He held her hand still in his, and caressed it 
almost unconsciously. “I am not like you in that,” he said. 
Alas, no! he was not like her in that. Though the accusation of 
being fastidious, fantastic, intolerant of the usual conditions of 
humanity, was, for the moment, the happiest thing that could be 
said to him, yet a fault — a fault would stand between him and 
whosoever was guilty of it ; mother, even, — love still more. 
A fault ! he was determined that she should be i)erfect, 
the woman whom he had chosen. To keep her perfect he was 
glad to seize at that suggestion of personal blame; to acknowledge 
that he himself was impatient of every condition, intolerant even 
of the bonds of humanity. But if there ever should arise the time 
when the goddess should be taken from her pedestal, when the 
woman should be found fallible, like all women. Heaven preserve 
poor Theo then. The thought went through Mrs. Warrenders 
mind like a knife. What would become of him ? He had given 
himself up so unreservedly to his love ; he had sacrificed even his 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


261 


own fastidious temper in the first place, had borne the remarks of 
the county, had supported Geoff, had allowed himself to be 
laughed at and blamed. But now, if he should chance to discover 
that the woman for whom he had done all this was not in herself 
a piece of perfection — His mother felt her very heart sink at 
the thought. No one was perfect enough to satisfy Theo; no ono 
was perfect at all so far as her own experience went. And when 
he made this terrible discovery, what would he do ? 

In the meantime they went to luncheon, and there was talk of 
the repairs wanted in the house, and of what Theo was doing “ at 
home.” He was very unwilling, however, to speak of “ home,” 
or of what he had begun to do there. He told them, indeed, of 
the trees that had been cut down, over which Chatty made many 
exclamations, mourning for them | but even Chatty was not vig- 
orous in her lamentations. They sat and talked, not interested in 
anything they were saying, the mother seated between them, 
watching each, herself scarcely able to keep up the thread of co- 
herent conversation; making now and then incursions on either 
side from which she was obliged to retreat hurriedly; referring 
now to some London experience which Chatty’s extreme dignity 
and silence showed she did not want to be mentioned, or to some- 
thing on the other side from which Theo withdrew' with still more 
distinct reluctance to be put under discussion. It was not till this 
uncomfortable meal W'as over that Theo made any further com- 
munication about his own affairs. He w'as on his way to the door, 
whither his mother had followed him, when he suddenly turned 
round as if accidentally. “ By the by,” he said, “ I forgot to tell 
you. She will be here presently, mother. She wanted to lose no 
time in seeing you.” 

“ Lady Markland! ” said Mrs. Warrender, w'ith a little start. 

He fixed his eyes upon her severely. “ Who else ? She is com- 
ing about three. I shall come back, and go home with her.” 

“ Theo, before I meet your future wife — You have never 
given me any details. Oh, tell me what has happened and what 
is going to happen. Don’t leave me to meet her in ignorance of 
everything.” 

“ What is it you want to know ? ” he said, with his sombre air, 
setting his back against the wall. “ You know all that I know.” 

“ Which is no more than that she has accepted you, Theo.” 

Well, w'hat more w'ould you have ? That is how it standi 
now, and may for months, for anything I can tell.” 


26 ^ 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ L should have thought it would have been better to get every* 
thing settled quickly. Why should there be any delay ? ” 

“Ah, why? You must ask that of Mr. Longstaffe,” he said, 
and turned away. 

Mrs. Warrender was much fluttered by the announcement of 
this visit. She had expected, no doubt, to meet Lady Markland 
very soon; to pay her, perhaps, a solemn visit; to receive her. so 
to speak, as a member of the family, which had been an alarming 
thought. For Lady Markland, though always grateful to her, and 
on one or two occasions offering something that looked like a close, 
confidential friendship, had been always a great lady in the opin- 
ion of the squire’s wife, a more important person than herself, in" 
timacy with whom would carry embarrassments with it. She had 
not been, like other people in her position, familiarly known in 
the society of the county. Her seclusion even during her husband 
lifetime, the almost hermit life she led, the pity she had ealled 
forth, the position as of one apart from the world which she had 
maintained, all united to place Lady Markland out of the common 
circle on a little eminence of her own. She had been very 
cordial, especially on the last evening they had sj^ent together, 
tl)e summer night when she had come to fetch Geoff. But 
still they had never been altogether at their ease with 

Lady Markland. Mrs. Warrender went back into the 

drawing-room, and looked round upon it with eyes more 

critical than when she had regarded it in relation to her- 

self ; wondering if Lady Markland would think it a homely 
place, a residence unworthy her future husband’s mother. She 
made some little changes in it instinctively, put away the work 
on which she had been engaged, and looked at Chatty’s little 
workbox with an inclination to put that too out of the way. The 
rooms at Markland were not so fine as to make such precautions 
necessary; yet there was a faded splendor about them very differ- 
ent from the limitation and comfortable, prim neatness of this. 
When she had done all that it was possible to do, she sat down to 
wait for her visitor, trying to read, Though she could not give 
much attention to what she read. “ Lady Markland is to be here 
at three,” she said to Chatty, who was slightly startled for a mo- 
ment, but much less than her mother, taking a strip of nni.slin out 
of her box, and beginning to work at it as if this was the business 
of life, and nothing else could excite her more. The blinds were 
all drawn down for the sunshine, and the light came in green and 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


263 


cool, though everything was blazing out-of-doors. These lowered 
blinds made it impossible to see the arrival, though Mrs. Warrcn- 
der heard it acutely, — every prance of the horses, every word 
Lady Markland said. It seemed a long time before, tlirough the 
many passages of the old-fashioned house, the visitor appeared. 
She make a slight pause on the threshold of the door, apparently 
waiting for an invitation, for a special reception. Mrs. Warren- 
der, with her heart beating, had risen, and stood with her hands 
clasped, in tremulous expectation. They looked at each other for 
a moment across the parlor-maid, who did not know how to get 
out of the room from between the two ladies, neither of whom 
advanced towards the other. Then Mrs. Warrender went hurried- 
ly forward with extended hands. 

‘‘Theo told me you were coming. I am veiy glad to see you.” 
They took each other’s hands, and Mrs. Warrender bent forward 
to give the kiss of welcome. They were two equal powers, meet- 
ing on a debatable ground, fulfilling all the necessary courtesies. 
Not like this should Theo’s mother have met his wife. It should 
have been a young creature, whom she could have taken into her 
arms, who would have flung herself upon the breast of his mother, 
or at her knees, like a child of her own. Instead of this, they 
were two equal powers, — if, indeed. Lady Markland were not the 
principal, the one to give, and not receive. Mrs. Warrender felt 
herself almost younger, less imposing altogether, than the new 
member of the family, to whom it should have been her part to 
extend a tender patronage, to drav/ close to her and set at her 
ease. Things were better when this difficult first moment was over. 
It was suitable and natural that Lady Markland should give to 
Chatty that kiss of peace: and then they all seated themselves iu 
a little circle. 

“ You have just arrived ? ” Lady Markland said. 

Yesterday. We have scarcely settled down.” 

“ And you enjoyed your stay in town ? Chatty, at least, — 
Chatty must have enjoyed it.” Lady Markland turned to her 
with a soft smile. 

“ Oh, yes, very much,” said Chatty, almost under her breath. 

And then there was a brief pause, after which, “ I hope Geoff 
is quite well,” Mrs. Warrender said. 

“ Quite well, and I was to bring you his love.” Lady Markland 
hesitated a little, and then said; “I should like if I might — to con- 
sult you about Geoff.” 


264 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Surely,” Mrs. Warreuder replied, and again there Tvas a pause 
In former times, Chatty would not have perceived the embar- 
rassment of her two companions, but she had learned to divine 
since her three weeks’ experience. She rose quietly. “ I tliink, 
mamma, you will be able to talk better, if I go away.” 

•‘I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs. Warreuder, with a slight 
tremulousness. Lady Markland did not say anything. She re- 
tained the advantage of the position, not denying that she wished 
it, and Chatty accordingly, putting down her work, went away. 
Mrs. Warreuder felt the solemnity of the interview more and 
more; but she did not know what to say. 

Presently Lady Markland took the initiative. She rose and ap- 
proached nearer to Mrs. Warrender’s side. “ I want you to tell 
me,” she said, herself growing for the first time a little tremulous, 

“ if you dislike this vei'^" much— for Theo ? ” 

‘‘ Dislike it! Oh, how can you think so ? His happiness is all 
I desire: and if you ” — 

“ If I can make him happy ? That is a dreadful question, Mrs. 
Warrender. How can any one tell ? I hope so; but if I should 
deceive myself ” — 

“That was not what I meant: there is no happiness for him 
hut that which you can give:— if you think him good enough, 
that was what I was going to say.” 

“Good enough! Theo? Oh, then you do not know what he 
is, though he is your son; and so far I am better than you are.” 

“ Lady Markland, you are better in a great many ways. It is 
this that frightens me. In some things you are so much above 
any pretentions of his. He has so little experience; he is not 
rich, nor even is he clever (though he is very clever) according to 
the ways of the world. I seem to be disparaging my boy. It is 
not that. Lady Markland.” 

“ No; do you think I don’t understand ? I am too old for him; 
I am not the kind of woman you would have chosen, or even that 
he would have chosen, had he been in his right senses.” 

“ It is folly to say that you are old. You are not old; you are 
a woman that any man might be proud to love. And his love— has 
been a wonder to me to see,” said his mother, her voice faltering, 
her eyes filling. “ I have never known such adoration as that.” 

“Ah, has it not!” cried the woman who was the object of it, a 
suddeu melting and ineffable change coming over her face. “ That 
was what gave me the courage,” she said, after a moment’s pause. 


265 


A COUyTBY GENTLEMAy. 

•* How could I refuse ? It is not often, is it, that a man — that a 
woman ’’ — Here her voice died away in a confusion and agita- 
tion which melted all Mrs. Warrender’s reluctance. She found 
herself with her arms round the great lady, comforting her, hold- 
ing her head against her own breast. They shed some tears to- 
gether, and kissed each other, and for a moment came so close 
that all secondary matters that could divide them seemed to fade 
away. “ But now,” said Lady Markland, after this little interval, 
“he is worried and disturbed again, by all the lawyers think it 
right to do. I should like to spare him all that, hut 1 am helpless 
in their hands. Oh, dear Mrs. Warrender, you will understand. 
There are so many things that make it more difficult. There is — 
Geoff.” 

Mrs. Warrender pressed her hands and gave her a look full of 
sympathy; hut she said nothing. She did not made a cheerful 
protest that all these things were without importance, and that 
Geoff was no dr.iwhack, as perhaps it was hoped she might do. 
Lady Markland drew hack a little, discouraged,— w ailing for some 
word of cheer whicli did not come. 

“ You know,” she said, her voice trembling, “ what my boy has 
been to me: everything, until this new^ light that I never dreamed 
of, that I never had hoped for, or thought of — You know how 
W'e li\ed together, he and I. He was my companion, more than 
a child sharing every thought. You know^” — 

“ Lady Markland, you have had a great deal of trouble, but 
how much with it ! — a child like that, and then ” — 

“ And then — Theo ! Was there ever a w'oman so blessed — or 
so —Oh, help me to know what I am to do between them You 
can understand better than any of the young ones. HonH you 
see,” said Lady Marklatid, wdth a smile in which there was a 
kind of despair, “ that though 1 am not old, as you say, I am on 
your level rather than on his, — that you can understand better 
than he ? ” 

If it were possible that a w'oman who is a mother could cease 
to be that in the first place, and become a friend first of all, a sym- 
pathizer in the very difficulties that overwdielm her son, that mir- 
acle was accomplished then. The woman whom she had w ith 
difficulty accepted as Theo’s future wife became for a moment 
nearer to her in the flood of sympathy than Theo himself. The 
woman’s pangs and hindrances were closer to her experience than 
the man’s. To him in the heat of his young passion, nothing was 
worth considering that interfered with the perfect accomplish- 
ment of his love. But to her — the young woman, who had to 
piece on the present to the past, who though she might have 
abandoned father and mother could never abandon her child— the 
other woman’s heart went out with a pang of fellow feeling. Mrs. 
Warrender, like most women, had an instinctive repugnance to the 
idea of a second marriage at all; but that being determined and be- 
yond the reach of change, her heart ached for the dilemma which 
W'as more painful than any wdiich enters into the possibilities of 
younger life. As Lady Markland leant towards her, claiming her 


266 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Bympathy, her face full of sentiments so conflicting, the joy of 
love and yet the anguish of it, and all the contrariety of a heart 
torn in two; the youthfalness. when all was said, of her expres- 
sive countenance; the reeollection tliat, after all, this mother who 
claimed to be on her own level was not too old to be her child, 
seized upon Mrs. Warrender. Nothing that is direct and simple 
can be so poignant as those complications in which right and 
wrong and all the duties of human life are so confused "^that no 
sharply cut division is possible. What was she to do ? She would 
owe all her heart to her husband, and what was to remain for her 
child ? Geoff had upon her the first claim of nature — her love, 
her care, was his right; but then Theo ? The old woman took 
the voung one into her arms, with an ache of sympathy. “ Oh, 
my dear, what can I say to you ? We must leave it to Providence. 
Things come round when we do not think too much of them, but 
do our best.’* 

How poor a panacea, how slight a support ! and yet in how 
many cases all that one human creature can say to another ! To 
do our best and to think as little as possible, and things will come 
TOund! The absolute mind scorns such mild consolation. To Theo 
it would have been an irritation, a wrong; but Tlico’s betrothed 
received it with huinbler consciousness. The sympathy calmed 
her, and that so modei-ate, so humble voucher of experience that 
things come round. Was it really so ? Was nothing so bad as it 
a,ppeareil ? Was it true that the way opened before you little by 
little in treading it, as she who had gone so much further on the 
path went on to say ? Lady Markland regained her composure 
as she listened. 

“ You are speaking to me like a true jnother,” she said. ‘‘I 
have never known what it was. Help me, only help me, — even to 
know that you understand me is so much, — and do not blame 
me.” 

” Dear Lady Markland ” — 

“ I have a name,” she said, with a smile which was full of pain, 
as if touching another subject of trouble, ‘‘ which is my own, 
which cannot be made any question of. Will you call me 
Frances ? It would please him. They say it would be unusual, 
unreasonable, a thing which is never done— to give up— Is that 
Theo ? Dear Mrs. Warrender, I shall be far happier, now that I 
know I have a friend in j'ou.” 

She grasped his mother's hands with a hurried gesture, and an 
anxious, imploring look; then gave a hasty glance into the glass, 
and recovered in a momeut her air of gentle dignity, her smile. 
It was this that met Theo when he came in eager, yet doubtful, 
his eyes finding her out, with a rapid question, the instant that he 
entered. AVhatever her troubles might be, none of them were 
made apparent to him. 


XXXV. 


Next day Mr. Longstaffe called upon Mrs Warrender, nominally 
about the alterations that had to be made in her house, but really 
with objects much more important. Ho made notes scrupulously 
of what she wanted, and hoped that she would not allow anything 
to be neglected that- was necessary for her comfort When these 
preliminaries were over, there was a pause. He remained silent, 
with an expectant air, waiting to be questioned; and though she 
had resolved, if possible, to refiain from doing so, the restSction 
was more than her faculties could bear, 

“My son tells me,” she said, as indifferently as possible, “ that 
there is a great deal going on between him and you.” 

Naturally ! ” cried Mr . Longstaffe, with a certain indignation. 
“He is making a marriage which is not at all a common kind of 
man iage, and yet he would have liked it to be without any settle- 
ments at all.” 

He could not wish anything that was not satisfactory to Ladv 
Markland.” 

“ Do you think so ? Then I must undeceive you. He would 
have liked Lady Markland to give herself to him absolutely, with 
no precautions, no restrictions.” 

“ Mr. Longstaffe, Theo is very much in love. He has always 
been very sensitive ; he cannot bear (I suppose) mixing up busi- 
ness matters, which he hates, with 
“ It is all very well for him to hate business i though between 
you and me, if you will allow me to say so, I think it very siliy 
Ladies may entertain such sentiments, but a man ought to know 
better. If you will believe me, he wants to marry her as if she 
were fifteen and had not a penny !— to make her Mrs. Theodore 
Warrender and take her home to his own house ! ” 

“ 'What should he do else ? Is not that the natural tbi p^ that 
iveiy man wishes to do ? ” 


268 


A coujvTJir 


“ Yes, if he marries a girl of fifteen without a penny, as I said. 
Mrs. Warrender, I know you are full of sense. Perhaps you will 
he able to put it before him in a better light. When a man mar- 
ries a lady with an established position of her own, like Lady 
Markland, and a great many responsibilities, — especially when 
she is a sort of queen mother and has a whole noble family to be 
accountable to ” — 

“ I do not wonder that Theo should be impatient, Mr. Long- 
staffe; all these things must be terrible to him, in the midst of 
his — Why should not they marry first, and let all these details 
arrange themselves afterwards 

“Many first I and leave her altogether unsecured I 

“ I hope you know that my son is a man of honor, Mr. Long- 
staffe.” 

“ My dear madam, we have nothing to do with men of honor in 
the law. I felt sure that you would understand at last. Suppose 
we had left Miss Minnie dependent upon the honor (though I 
don’t doubt it at all) of the Thynne family 

“ I don’t mean in respect to money,” said Mrs. Warrender, with 
a slight flush. “ He will not interfere with her money, — of that I 
am certain.’^ 

“No, only with herself; and she has been left the control of 
everything, and she must be free to administer her son’s property 
and look after his interests. If you will allow me to say it, Mrs. 
Warrender, Lady Markland is a much better man of business than 
Theo.” 

Mr. Longstaffe had known Theo all his life, and had never ad- 
dressed him otherwise than by that name: but it seemed an over- 
familiarity, a want of respect, even a sign of contempt, in the 
position in which Theo now stood. She replied with a little 
offense : — 

“ That is very possible. He has had little experience, and he is 
a scholar, not a person of business. But why should the marri- 
age be delayed ? This is Ihe worst moment for them both. I 
know my son, Mr. Longstaffe. All this frets him beyond descrip- 
tion now; but when the uncertainty is over, and all these negotia- 
tions, everything will come round. He will never interfere or 
prevent her from doing what is necessary for her son. When 
they are once married all will go well.” 

This was a long speech for Mrs. Warrender, and she made it 
with interruptions, with trepidation, not quite so sure, perhaps, 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 269 

of her oTrn argument as she had thought she was. The lawyer 
looked at her with a kind of respectful contempt. 

“ There may be a certain justice in what you say, that this is 
the worst moment, but I for one could never agree to anything so 
unbusinesslike as you seem to suggest. Marriage first, and busi- 
ness afterwards — no, no. And then there is the little boy. You 
would not have him sent off to nurse while his mother goes upon 
3ier honeymoon ? Poor little fellow, so devoted as she was to him 
before ! ” 

“A second marriage,” said Mrs. Warrender, subdued, “can 
never be so simple, so easy, as one in which there are no compli- 
cations.” 

“They are better, if they so abide,” said Mr. Longstaffe. “I 
agree with St. Paul, for my part. But no doubt it would be hard 
upon a young w'oman, poor thing, that made such a failure in her 
first. If Theo were not so restive, if you could get him to take 
things a little more easily — Dear me, of course I trust in his 
honor ; no one doubts that. But he will lead her a pretty dance I 
Whether it will be better for her to have a good, crotchety, high- 
tempered young fellow who adores her, or a rough young scamp 
who neglected her ” — 

“There can be no comparison between the two.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Longstaffe ruefully, but perhaps his judgment 
did not lean to Theo’s side. 

“And why should not they live at the Warren ?” she asked. 
“ It is not a fine house, but it is a good house, and with the im- 
provements Theo is making ” — 

“ My dear lady, to me the Warren is a delightful little place, or 
at least it could be made delightful. But Markland, — Markland 
is a very different matter. To change tlie one for the other would 
be — well, it would be, you won’t deny, something like a sacrifice. 
And why should she ? when Markland is all ready, wanting no 
alteration, an excellent house, and in the middle of the property 
which she has to manage : whereas the Warren ” — 

“ I have lived in the Warren all my life,” said Mrs. Warrender, 
with a little natural indignation. It wounded her that he should 
talk of it patronizingly as “ a delightful little place.” She was 
not in any way devoted to the Warren ; still, this patronage, this 
unfavorabla^ comparison, irritated her, and she began to range her- 
self with more warmth upon her own side. “I can see no reason 
why my son’s wife should not live there.” 


270 


A COUNTBY GENTLEMAN. - 


“But there are reasons why Lady Markland should not liv® 
there.” 

Mrs. Warrender’s eyes shot fortli fire. She no longer wondered 
that Theo was driven to the verge of distraction. Oh, that he had 
loved some young creature on his own level, some girl who wmuld 
have gone sweetly to his home with him and glorified the old life! 
His mother had w'ept over and soothed the woman of his choice 
only yesterday, entering into all the difficulties that beset her path* 
and pledging her own assistance to overcome them; but now her 
mind was all in arms in behalf of her boy, whose individuality 
was to be crushed among them, who ^vas to be made into an ap- 
pendage to Lady Markland, and have no place of his own. In- 
stead of giving her assistance to tame Theo, she felt herself take 
fire in his defence. 

“ You are very right, no doubt, to consider Lady Markland in 
the first place,” she said, “but I don't think we can argue the 
question further, for to me my son must be the first.” 

It is the right W'ay,” said the lawyer; “ but when a young man 
lifts his eyes ” — 

“ We will say no more on the subject,” she said, quickly ; and 
Mr. Longstaffe 'was too judicious to do anything else than resume 
the question about the garden palings, and then to bow himself 
out. He turned, indeed, at the door to express his regrets that he 
had not brought her to his way of thinking, — that he had lost her 
valuable help, upon which he had calculated: but this did not^ 
conciliate Mrs. Warrender. She had no carriage at her orders, or 
she would have gone to the Warren at once, with the impulsive- 
ness of her nature, to see what Theo was doing, what he was 
thinking of. But Theo was at Markland, alternating between the 
Paradiso and the Inferno, between the sweetness of his betrothed’s 
company and all the hard conditions of his happiness ; and the 
Warren was in the hands of a set of leisurely country trades 
people, who, if Theo had meant to carry his bride there, must have 
postponed that happiness for a year or two, — not much w'onder, 
perhaps, since they were left by the young master to dawdle on 
their own way. 

Mrs. Warrender, however, had another and a surprising visitor 
on this same day. The ladies were sitting together in their usual 
way,' in the heat of the afternoon, waiting until it sliodld be coo2 
enough for their walk, wdien the parlor-maid, not used, perhaps, 
to such. visitors, opened the door, with a littl6 excitement, and 


A COUNTliY GENTLEMAN. 


271 


announced, “Lord Markland.” Mrs. Warrender rose quickly to 
to her feet, with a low cry, and a sudden wild imagination such as 
will dart across a troubled mind. Lord Markland ! Had he 
never died, then? Was it alia dream? Had he come back to 
stop it in time ? A small voice interrupted this hash of thought, 
and brought her back to herself with a giddy sense of the ridicu- 
H Ions and a sensation of shame quite out of proportion to the mo- 
mentary illusion. “It is only me, Geoff: but I thought, when she 
asked me my name, I was obliged to give my right name.” He 
seemed smaller than ever, as he came across the room, twitching 
his face as his habit was, and paler, or rather graver, with scanty 
locks and little twinkling eyes, “ Did you think it was some one 
else ? ” he said. 

“ Of course it could be no one but you. I was startled for the 
moment, not thinking of you by that title. And have you come 
all this way alone — without any” — 

“ Oh, you w'ere thinking of that other time. There is a great 
deal of differeuce since that other time. It is nearly a year since; 
and now I do a great many things by myself,” said the boy, look- 
ing at her keenly. “ I am let to go wherever I please.” 

“ Because you are now old enough to take care of yourself,” 
said Mrs. Warrender, “ with the help of Black.” 

“ Yes,” said Geoff : “how did you know? T have got Black. 
But thei-e is more in it than that. Would mamma have ruined 
me, if she had kept on always coddling me, Mrs. Warrender ? 
That is what the servants say.” 

“ My dear, one never allows the servants to say things of that 
kind. You should understand your mother’s meaning much 
better than they can do.” 

“I see a great deal of the servants now,” said Geoff; then he 
corrected himself with a look of sudden recollection — “ that is, I 
am afraid I disobey mamma, Mrs. Warrender. I am rather fond 
of the servants; they arc more amusing than other people. I go 
to the stables often when I know I ought n’t. To know you 
ought n’t, and yet to do it, is very bad, don’t you think ? ” 

“ I am afraid it is, Geoff. Don’t you have any lessons now ? ” 

“ They say this is holiday time,” said the boy. Of course I am 
glad of the holidays, but it is a little stupid, too, not having any 
one to play with — But I may come out a great deal more than I 
used to: and that is a great advantage, is n’t it? I read, too, 
chiefly stories ; but a w’hole day is a very long time, don’t you 


272 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


think so ? I did not say where I was coming this afternoon, in 
case the pony might get tired, or Black turn cross, or something: 
but it appears Black likes to come to Ilighcombe: he has friends 
here.” The boy liad come close to Mrs. Warrender’s work-table, 
and was lifting up and putting down again the reels of sillc, the 
thimbles and scissors. He went on with this occupation for some 
time very gravely, his hack turned to the light. At length he 
said, “I want you to tell me one thing. They say Warrender is 
coming to live at our house.” 

“ I am afraid it is true, Geoff.” 

“ Don’t you like it, then ? ” said the boy. “ I thought if you did 
not like it you would not let it be.” 

“ My dear, my son Theo is a man. I cannot tell him what he 
must do, as your mother does to you. And if I do not like it, it is 
because he has a good house of his own.” 

“ Ah, the Warren!” said Geoff; then he added, pulling all the 
reels about in the work-table, and without raising his eyes to her 
face, “If he is coming, I wish he would come, Mrs. Warrender; 
then perhaps I should go to school. Don’t you think school is a 
good thing for a boy ? ” 

“ Everybody says so, Geoff ” 

“ Yes, I know; it is in all the books. Mrs. Warrender, if — 
Warrender is coming to live with us, will you be a sort of grand- 
mother to me ? ” 

This startled her very much. She looked at the odd child with 
a sensation almost of alarm. 

“ Because,” he continued, “ I never had one, and I could come 
and talk to you when things were bad.” 

“ I hope you will never have any experience of things being bad, 
Geoff.” 

He gave a glance at her face, his hands still busy among the 
threads and needles. 

“ Oh, no, never, perhaps— but, Mrs. Warrender, if— Warrender 
is coming to Markland to live, I wdsh he would do it now, directly. 
Then it would be settled w'hat was going to be done wdth me — and 
— and other things.” Geoff’s face twiched more than ever, and 
she understood that the reason why he did not look at her was be- 
cause his little eyelids were swollen with involuntary tears. 
“ There are a lot of things — that perhaps would get — settled then,” 
he said. 


A COUNTBT GENTLEMAN. 


273 

“ Geoff,” she said, putting her arm roui 1 him, “ I am afraid 
you don’t like it any more than I, my poor boy.” 

Geolf would not yield to the demor&hzing influence of this 
caress. He held himself away from h''", swaying backwards, re- 
sisting the pressure of her arm. Ins eyelids grew bigger and 
bigger, his mouth twiched and quivered. “ Oh, it is not that,” he 
said, with a quiver in his voice, “ if mamma likes it. I am only 
little, I am rather backward, I am not— company enough for 
mamma.’ 

” That must be one of the things that the servants say! You 
must not listen, Geoff, to what tlie servants say.” 

‘‘ But it is quite true. Mamma knows just exactly what is best. 
I used to be the one that was always with her— and now it is 
Warrender. He can talk of lots of things — things 1 don’t under- 
stand. For I tell you I am very backward ; I don’t know half, 
nor so much as half, what some boys do at my tige.” 

” That is a pity, perhaps; but it does not matter, Geoff, to your 
— to the people who are fond of you, my dear.” 

“ Oh, yes, it does! ” cried the boy. “Don’t hold me, please! 
I am a little beast; I am not grateful to people nor anything! The 
best thing for me will just be to be sent to school.” Here Geoff 
turned his back upon her abruptly, forced thereto by the neces- 
sity of getting rid of those tears. When he had thus relieved him- 
self, and cleared his throat of the climbing sorrow that threatened 
to choke his voice, he came back and stood once more by her 
table. The great effort of swallowing down all that emotion had 
made him pale, and left the strained look which the passage of a 
sudden storm leaves both upon the human countenance and the 
sky. “ They say it’s very jolly at Eton,” he resumed suddenly, 
taking up with his hot little nervous fingers Mrs. Warrender’s 
piece of work. 

But at this point Geoff’s confidences were interrupted by the 
entrance of visitors, who not only meant to make themselves 
agreeable to Mrs. Warrender on her first arrival at Highcombe, 
but who were very eager to find out all that they could about the 
marriage of Theo : if it really were going to take place, and when, 
and everything about it. It added immensely to the excitement, 
but little to the information acquired, when, in answer to the 
first question, Mrs. Warrender indicated to her visitors that the 
little boy standing at her side, and contemplating them, with his 
hands in his pockets, was little Lord Markland. “ Oh, the boy,*' 


274 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


they said under their breath, and stopped their questioning most 
unwillingly, all but tLe elder lady, who got Mrs. Warrender into 
a corner, and carrieu on the interrogatory. Was she quite 
pleased ? But of course he was pleased. The difference of age 
was so little that it did matter; and though the Markland 
family were known not to be’ rich, yet to be sure it was a very 
nice position. And such a fine character! not a woman that was 
very popular, but quite above criticism. “There never was a 
whisper against her,— oh, never a whisper! and that is a great 
thing to say.” Geoff did not hear, and probably would not have 
understood, these comments. He still stood by the work-table, 
taking the reels of silk out of their places, and putting them 
back again with the gravity of a man who has something very 
important iii hand. He seemed altogether absorbed in this 
simple occupation, bending over it with eyebrows contracted 
over his eyes, and every sigh of earnestness. •“ What a curious 
thing for a boy to take pleasure in! But I suppose being al- 
ways with his mother has rather spoiled him. It will be so 
good for the child to have a man in the house,” said the lady 
who was interviewing Mrs. Warrender. There was a little 
group of the younger ladies round Chatty, talking about the 
parish and the current amusements, and hoping that she would 
join the archery club, and that she loved croquet The conver- 
sation was very animated on that side, one voice echoing an- 
other, although the replies of Chatty were mild. Geoff had all 
the centre of the room to himself, and stood there as on the 
stage; putting the reel of red silk into the square which was 
intended for the blue, and arranging the colors in squares and 
paralells. He was much absorbed in this, and yet he did not 
know what he was doing. His little bosom swelled high with 
thought; his heart was wrung with the poignancy of love re- 
jected, — of loss and change. It was not that he was jealous; the 
sensations which he experienced had little bitterness or anger in 
them. Presently he turned around and said, “ I think I shall go 
home, Mrs. Warrender,” vdth a disagreeable consciousness that 
everybody paused and looked at him, when a smJill voice broke 
the murmur of the feminine conversation. But what did that 
matter to Geoff ? He had much to occupy him,— too much to 
leave him free to think how people looked, or what they said. 


XXXVI. 


Geoff’s heart vras full. He pondered all the way home» 
neglecting all the blandishments of Black’s conversation, who 
had visited a friend or two in Ilighcombe, and was full of cheer- 
fulness and very loquacious. Geoff let him talk, but paid no 
attention. He himself had gone to Mrs. Warrender, whom he 
liked, with the hope of disburdening from his little bosom some 
of the perilous stuff which weighed upon his soul. He had 
wanted to sfogarsi, as the Italians say, to relieve a heart too full 
to go on any longer: but Geoff found, as so many others have 
found before him, that the relief thus obtained but made continued 
silence more intolerable. He could not shut up the doors again 
which had thus been forced open. The sensation which over- 
whelmed him was one wdiich most people at one time or another 
have felt: that the circumstances amid which he was placed had 
become insupportable; that life could no longer go on, under such 
cojiditions, — a situation terrible to the maturest man or woman, 
but what word can describe it in the heart of a child ? In his 
mother was summed up all love and reliance, all faith and admira- 
tion, for Geoff. She had been as the sun to him. She had been 
as God, the only known and visible representative of love and 
authority, the one unchangeable, ever right, ever true. And now 
she had changed, and all life was out of gear. Ilis heart was sick, 
not because he was wronged, but because everything had gone 
wrong. He did not doubt his mother’s love; he w'as not clear 
enough in his thoughts to doubt anything, or to put the case into 
any arrangement of words. He felt only that he could not bear 
it, that anything would be better than the present condition of 
affairs. Geoff’s heart filled, and his eyes, and there came a con- 
striction of his throat wdien he realized the little picture of him- 
self wandering about, wdth nobody to care for him, no lessons; 
for the first time in his life forbidden to dart into his mother’s 
room at any moment, with a rush against th^ door, in full cer* 


276 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


tainty that there could never be a time when she did not want 
liim. Self-pity is very strong and very simple in a child, and to 
see, as it were, a picture in his mind of a little boy, shut out from 
his mother, and wanted by no one, was more poignant still than 
the reality. The world was out of joint; and Geoff felt with 
Hamlet that there was nobody but him to set it right. The water 
came into his eyes, as he rode along, but except what he could 
get rid of by winking violently he left it to the breeze to dry; no 
hand or handkerchief, not even a little knuckle piteously unab- 
sorbent, would he employ to show to Black that he was crying. 
Crying! No, he would not cry; what could that do for him? 
But something would have to be done, or said; once the little 
floodgates had been burst open, they could not close any more. 

Geoff pondered long, though with much confusion in his 
thoughts. He was very magnanimous: not even in his inmost 
soul did he blame his mother, being still young enough to believe 
that unhappy events come of themselves and not by anybody’s 
fault. To think that she liked Theo better than himself made 
his heart swell, but rather with a dreadful sense of fatality than 
with blame. And then he was a little backward boy, not knowing 
things like Theo, whom, by the way, he no longer called Theo, 
having shrunk involuntarily, unawares, out of that familiarity as 
soon as matters had grown serious. As he thought it all over, 
Geoff’s very heart was rent. His mother had cried when she took 
him into her arms; he remembered that she had kissed his cold 
feet, that she had looked as if she were begging his pardon, kneel- 
by his side on that terrible night when he had come dimly to an 
understanding of what it all meant. Geoff, like Hamlet in his 
little way, felt that nothing that could be done could ever undo 
that night. It was there, a fact which no after-revolution could 
change. No vengeance could have put back the world to what it 
was before Hamlet’s mother had married her brother-in-law, and 
the soft Ophelia turned into an innocent traitor, and all grown 
false: neither could anything undo to little Geoff the dreadful 
revolution of heaven and earth through which his little life had 
gone. All the world was out of joint, and what could he do to 
mend it, a little boy of ten, — a backward little boy, not knowing 
half so much as many at his age ? His little bosom swelled, his 
eyes grew wet, and that strange sensation came in his throat. 
But he kept on riding in front of Black, so that nothing could be 
seen. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


277 


Lady Markland was in the avenue as he rode up to the gate. 
Geoff knew very well that she had walked as far as the gate with 
Warrender, whom he had seen taking the road to the right, the 
short way across the fields. But when he saw his mother he got 
down from his pony and walked home with her. “ Where have 
you been ?” she cried. “ I was getting very anxious; you must 
not go those long rides by yourself.” 

“I had Black,” said Geoff, “and you said I must learn to be . 
independent, to be able to take care of myself.” 

“ Did I say so, dear ? Perhaps it is true: but still you know 
how nervous I am, how anxious I grow.” 

Geoff looked his mother in the face like an accusing angel; not 
severely, but with all the angelic regret and tenderness of one 
who cannot be deceived, yet would fain blot out the fault with a 
tear. “Poor mamma!” he said, clasping her arm in his old 
childish way. 

“ Why do you call me poor mamma ? Geoff, some one has 
been saying something to you; your face is not like the face of 
my own boy.” 

She was seized with sudden alarm, with a wild desire to justify 
herself, and the sudden wu-ath with which a conscious culprit 
takes advantage of the suggestion that ill tongues alone or evil 
representations have come between her and those whom she has 
wronged. The child, on his side, took no notice of this. He had 
gone so much further, — beyond the sphere in which there are 
accusations or defenses; indeed, he was too young for anything 
of the kind. “Mamma,” he said, clasping her arm, “I think I 
should like to go to school. Don’t you think it would be better 
for me to go to school ? ” 

“ To school ! ” she cried. “ Do you want to leave me, Geoff ? '* 
in a tone of sudden dismay. 

“ They say a boy ought to go to school; and they say it’s very 
jolly at Eton; and I’m very backward, don’t you know,— Warren- 
der says so ” 

“ Geoff! he has never said it to me.” 

“ But if it is true, mamma! There is no difference between me 
and a girl, staying at home. And there I should have other 
fellows to play with. You had better send me. I should like it.” 

She gave him an anxious look, which Geoff did not lift his eyes 
to meet; then, with a sigh, “ If you think you would like it 
Geoff. To be sure, it is what would have to be sooner or later*” 


278 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Here slie made a hurried breathless pause, as if her thoughts went 
quicker than she could follow. “But now it is July, and you 
could not go before Michaelmas,” she said. 

Was she sorry he could not goat once, though she had exclaimed 
at the first suggestion that he wanted to leave her at all ? Geoff 
was too young to ask himself this question, but there was a vague 
sensation in his mind of something like it, and of a mingled satis- 
faction and disappointment in his mother’s tone. 

“ Warrender says there are fellows who prepare you for Eton,” 
the boy said, holding his breath hard that he might not betray 
himself. “He is sure to know somebody. Send me now.” 

“ You are very anxious to leave me,” she cried, in a tone of 
piteous excitement and misery. “ Why, why should you wish it 
so much?” Then she paused, and asked suddenly, “Is it Mr. 
Warrender who has put this in your mind ?” 

“I don’t know nothing about Warrender,” said Geoff, blinking 
his eyes to keep the tears away. “I never spoke to Warrender. 
He said that when he was not thinking about me.” 

And then she clasped her arms about him suddenly in a trans- 
port of pain and trouble and relief. ” Oh, Geoff, Geoff,” she 
cried, “why, why do you want to leave me ?” The boy could 
not but sob, pressed closely against her, feeling her heart swell as 
his own was doing : but neither did he make any attempt to an- 
swer, nor did she look for any reply. 


xxxvir. 


Various scenes to which Markiand was all unaccustomed had 
been taking place in these days : alternations of rapture and 
gloom on the part of Warrender, of shrinking and eagerness on 
the part of Lady Markland, which made their intercourse one of 
perpetual vicissitude. From the quiet of her seclusion she had 
been roused into all the storms of passion, and though this was 
sweetened by the absolute devotion of the young man who adored 
her, there were yet moments in which she felt like Geoff that the 
position was becoming insupportable. Everything in her life was 
turned upside down by this new element in it, which came be- 
tween her and her child, betw'cen her and her business, the work 
to which she had so lately made up her mind to devote herself, as 
to the great object of her existence. All that was suspended now. 
When Theo was with her, he would not brook, nor did she desire, 
any interruption; and when he was not with her the bewildering 
thoughts that would rush upon her, the questions in her mind as 
to what she ought to do,— whether it might not even now be 
better for everybody to break, if it were possible, those engage- 
ments which brought so much agitation, which hindered every- 
thing, which disturbed even the bond between herself and her 
child, — would sometimes almost destroy her moral balance al- 
together. And then her young lover would arrive, and all the 
miseries and difficulties would be forgotten, and it would seem as 
if earthly conditions and circumstances had rolled away, and there 
were but these two in a new life, a new world, wliere no troubles 
were. Then Lady Markland would say to herself that it was the 
transition only that was painful, that they were all in a false posi- 
tion, but that afterwards, when the preliminaries were over and 
all accomplished, everything would be well. When she was his, 
and he hers, beyond drawing back or doubt, beyond the possi- 
bility of separation, then all that was over-anxious, over-sensitiv«, 


280 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


ill Theo would settle down in the sober certainty of happiness 
secured, and Geoff who was so young, reconcile himself to that 
which would so soon appear the only natural condition of life, and 
the new would seem as good as, nay, better than the old. She 
trembled herself upon the verge of the new, fearing any change 
and shrinking from it, as is natural for a woman, and yet in her 
heart felt that it would be better this great change should 
come and be accomplished, rather than to look forward to it, to 
go through all its drawbacks and pay its penalties every day. 

A few days after these incidents Theo came to Markland, one 
morning, with brows more than usually cloudy. He had been 
annoyed about his house, the improvements about which had been 
going on very slowly: one of his trades-people worse than another, 
the builder waiting for the architect, the carpenter for the builder, 
the new furniture and decorations naturally lagging behind all. 
And to make these things more easy to bear he had met Mrs. 
Wilberforce, who had told him that she wondered to see so much 
money being spent at the Warren, as she heard his home was to be 
at Markland, and so natural, as it was so much better a house ; and 
that she had lieard little Lord Markland was going to school im- 
mediately, which no doubt was the best thing that could be done, 
and would leave his mother free. When he arrived at Markland 
he was full of the excitement of this information. “ I am never 
told,” he said, “ I do not wish to exact anything, but if you have 
made up your mind about Geoff, I think I might have heard it 
from yourself.” 

‘•Dear Theo!” Lady Markland said, and that was all. 

Then he threw himself at her feet in sudden compunction. “ I 
am a brute,” he said. ” I come to you with my idiotic stories, and 
you listen to me with that sweet patience of yours, and never re- 
prove me. Tell me I am a fool and not worthy of your trust 5 I 
am so, I am so! But it is because I can’t bear this state of affairs: 
to be everything to you, and yet nothing: to know that you are 
mine, and yet have a stranger informing me what you are going 
to do.” 

“ No stranger need inform you, Theo. Geoff has asked me to send 
him to school, though I can’t tell how any one could know. He 
wishes to go— directly. He is not happy, either. Oh, Theo, I think 
I make everybody unhappy instead of” — 

“Not you,” he cried, “not you; those men, with their idiotic 
delays. Geoff is wise,— wiser than they are. Let us follow his 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


281 


example, dearest. You didn’t distrust me; you know that what- 
ever is best for you, even what they think best, all their ridiculous 
conditions, I will carry out. Don’t you know that the less my 
hands are bound, the more I should accept the fetters, all, as 
much as they please, that they think needful for you ? — but not 
as conditions of having you. That is what I cannot bear.” 

“ You have me,” she said, smiling upon him with a smile very 
close upon tears, you know, without any conditions at all.” 

“ Then let it be so! ” he cried. “Oh, let it be so— tlirectly, as 
Geoff wishes; dear little Geoff, wise Geoff, — let him be our ex- 
ample.” 

“ Theo — oh, try to love my boy ! ” 

“ I will make him my model, if you will take his example: 
directly, directly! The child is wise, he knows better than any of 
us. Darling, let us take his example, let us cut this knot. When 
the uncertainty is over, all these difficulties will melt away.” 

“ He is wise, Theo,— you don’t know how right you are. Oh, 
my boy! and I am taking so little thought of him. I felt my 
heart leap when he asked to go away. Can you believe it ? My 
own boy, my only one ! I was glad, and I hate myself for it, though 
it was for you. ” 

“ All this,” he said, eagerly addressing himself with all the arts 
he knew to comfort and reassure her, “ is this state of miserable 
delay. We are in the transition from one to another. What good 
can we do to keep hanging on, to keep the wffiole county in talk, 
to make Geoff unhappy ? He goes by instinct, and he sees it : 
my own love, let us do so, too. Let us do it, without a word to 
any one, my dearest! ” 

“ Oh, Theo,” she cried, “ if you will but promise me to love my 
boy ! ” 

In the distracted state in wdiich she w’as, this no-argument of 
Geoff’s little example went to her heart. It seemed to bring him 
somehow into the decision, to make it look like a concession to 
Geoff, a carrying out of his wishes, and at the same time a su- 
preme plea with Theo for love and understanding of Geoff. Yet 
it w'as with falterings and sinkings of soul indescribable that Lady 
Markland went through the two following days. They were days 
wonderful not to be ever forgotten. Theo did not appear, — he 
had gone away, she said, for a little while upon business, and 
Geoff and she were left alone. They went back into all the old 
habitudes, as if nothing were changed ; and the house fell again 


282 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


Into a strange calm, a quietness almost unnatural. There were no 
lessons, no business, nothing to be done, but only an abandon* 
ment to that pleasure of being together which had been so long 
broken. He went with her for her drives, and she went with him 
for his walk. She called for Geoff whenever he disappeared for a 
moment, as if she could not bear him away from her side. Thev 
were as they had been before Tlieo existed for them, when they 
were all in all to each other. Alas, they were, yet w’ere not, as 
they had been. When they drove through the fair country, w’here 
the sheaves w'ere standing in the fields and everything w^as aglow 
with the mirth of harvest, they w'cre both lost in long reveries, 
only calling themselves back by intervals wdth a recollection of 
the necessity of saying something to each other. When they 
walked, though Geoff still clung to his mother’s arm, his tlioughts 
as w’ell as hers were away. Th.ey discovered in this moment of 
close reunion that they had lost each other. Hot only did the 
mother no longer belong to the child, but the child even, driven 
from her side he knew not how', w^as lost to the mother; they 
had set out unconsciously each upon a new and separate w^ay. 
Geoff w'as not grieved, scarcely even startled, when she told him, 
on the second evening, that she w'as going to town next day; for 
shopping, she said. lie did not ask to be taken with her, nor 
thought of asking ; it appeared to Geoff that he had knowm all 
along that sh6 w^ould go. Lady Markland proposed to him that 
he should pay Mrs. Warrender a visit, and he consented, not ask- 
ing why. He drove in with her to the station at Highcombe, 
where Chatty met him, and took leave of his mother strangely, in 
a curious, dreamy "way as if he w'ere not sure what he was doing. 
To be sure, it was a parting of little importance. She w'as going 
to town, to do some shopping, and in less than a week she was to 
be back. It had never happened before, which gave the incident 
a distinguishing character, that was all. But she seated herself 
on the other side of the railway carriage, and did not keep him in 
her eye till she could see him no more. And though she cried 
under her veil some tears which were salt and bitter, yet in her 
Iieart there was a feeling of relief, — of relief to have parted w'ith 
her boy I Could such a thing be possible? GeofT, on his side, 
went back with Chatty very quietly, saying little. He sat down in 
a corner of the drawing-room, ■with a book, his face twitching 
more than usual, his eyes puckered up tight ; but afterwards be- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 283 

came, as Chatty said, “very companionable,” which was indeed the 
chief quality of this little forsaken boy. 

It was not till nearly a week after that Lady Markland came 
back. She arrived suddenly, one evening, with Theo, unexpected, 
unannounced. Dinner was over, and they had all gone into the 
garden in the warm summer twilight when these unlooked-for 
visitors came. Lady Markland was clad from head to foot in 
gray, the color of the twilight,— she who had been for so long all 
black. Theo followed her closely, in light attire also, and with a 
face all alight with happiness, more bright than in all his life his 
face had ever been before. He took Geoff by the shoulders with 
a sort of tender roughness, which was almost like an embrace. 
“Is that you, my old boy?” he said, with an unsteady laugh, 
pushing him into his mother’s arms. And then there was some 
crying and kissing, and Geoff heard it said that they had thought 
it better so, to avoid all fuss and trouble, and that it had taken 
place in town five days ago. To him no further explanations were 
made, but he seemed to understand it as well as the most grown- 
up person among them all. 

This sudden step, which put all the power in Theo’s hands to 
thwart the lawyers and regulate matters at his own pleasure, 
made him at once completely subservient to them, accepting 
everything which he had struggled against before. He took up 
his abode at Markland with his wife without so much as a pro- 
test: from thence he found it an amusement to watch the slow 
progress of the works at the Warren; riding over two or three 
times a week, sometimes accompanied by Geoff on his pony, 
sometimes by Geoff’s mother, who it appeared could ride very 
well, too. And when they went into society it was as Lady Mark- 
land and Mr. Warrender. Even on this point, without a word, 
Theo had given in. 

There was. of course, a great outcr>' in the country about this 
almost runaway marriage. It was not dignified for Lady Mark- 
land, people said ; but there were some good-natured souls who 
said they did not wonder, for that a widow’s wedding was not a 
pretty spectacle, like a young girl’s, and of course there %vere 
always embarra.ssments, especially with a child so old as Geoff. 
What could his mother have done with him, had he been present 
at the wedding ?— and he must have been present at the w’edding, 
if it had been performed in the ordinary way. Poor little Geoff 1 
If only the new husband would be good to him, everybody said. 


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xxxvin. 


** Of course it was perfectly right. Xo one couIdT say that I 
was in any way infatuated about Lady Markland, never from the 
first; but I quite approve of that. Why should she call herself 
Mrs. Theodore Warrender, when she has the title of a viscountess ? 
Or if it had been a trumpery little baronetcy,” said Minnie, strong 
in her new honors, “ that would have been quite a different mat- 
ter; but why should one give up one’s precedency, and all that? 
I should not at all like to have Mrs. Wilberforce, for instance, or 
any other person of her class, walk out of a room before me— 
now.” 

Or me, I suppose,” Mrs. Warrender said with a smile. 

“Oh, you! that is different of course,” said the Hon. Mrs. 
Eustace Thynne; but though she was good enough to say this, it 
was very evident that even for her mother Minnie had no idea of 
waiving her rights. “ When a thing is understood it is so much 
easier,” she added, “ every one must see that; besides, it was not 
her fault that her first husband died.” 

“ Surely, it was her fault that she married again,” said Chatty. 

“ Oh, what do you know about it ? An unmarried girl can’t 
really have any experience on that subject. Well, to be sure it 
was her own doing to marry again, but a lady of rank never gives 
up her title on marrying a commoner. A baronet’s wife as I say, 
—but then a baronet is only a commoner himself.” 

“ You seem to have thoroughly studied the subject, Minnie.” 

“Yes, I have studied it; marrying into a noble family natu- 
rally changes one’s ideas. And the Thynnes are very particular. 
You should have seen my mother-in-law arranging the dinner- 
party she asked to meet us. I went first, of course, as the bride^ 
but there was Lady Highcourt and Lady Grandmalson, both 
countesses, and the creation within twenty-five years of each 
other. Eustace said nobody but his mother could hav’e recol- 
lected, without looking it up, that the Grandmaisons date from 1425 
wand the Highcourts only from 1450— not the very oldest nobility 


286 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


either of them,” said Minnie, with a grand air. “ The Thynne 
peerage dates from 1395.” 

“ But then,” said Mrs. Warrender, much amused, shooting an 
arrow at a venture, “ their descent counts in the female line.” 

Upon which a deep blush, a wave of trouble and shame, passed 
over Minnie’s countenance. “ Only in one case,” she cried, 
“ only once; and that you will allow is not much in five hundred 
years.” 

The bridal pair had arrived on their visit only the day before: 
they had taken a long holiday, and had been visiting many 
friends. It was now about two months since their marriage, and 
the gowns in Minnie’s trousseau began to lose their obtrusive 
newness, nor can it be said that her sentiments were new. They 
were only modified a little by her present milieu. “I suppose,” 
she said, after an interval, “ that Lady Markland will come to see 
me as soon as she knows I am here. Shall they have any one 
there for the shooting, this year ? Eustace quite looks forward 
to a day now and then. There is the Warren at least, which poor 
dear papa never preserved, but which I hope Theo — Eustace says 
that Theo will really be failing in his duty if he does not pre- 
serve.” 

“ 1 know nothing about their plans on their visitors. Theo is 
very unlikely to think of a party of sportsmen, who were never 
much in his way.” 

Chatty in the moan time had gone out of the room about her 
flowers, which were always her morning’s occupation. When 
she had closed the door, Minnie, who had been waiting eagerly, 
leaned forward to her mother. “As for being in his way, Theo 
has no right to be selfish, mamma. He ought to think of Chatty, 
She ought to think of Chatty. I shall not have nearly so good 
an opinion of her, if she does not take a little trouble and do 
something for Chatty now she is going out again and has it in 
her power.” 

“For Chatty — but Chatty does not shoot! ” 

“ You never will understand mamma,” said Mrs. Eustace 
Thynne with gentle exasperation. “ Chatty ought to be thought 
of now. I am sure I never was; if it had not been for Eustace 
coming to Pierrepoint, I should have been Miss Warrender all 
my life, and so will Chatty be Miss Warrender all her life, if no 
one comes to the rescue. Of course it should lie with me in the 
first place, but except neighboring clergymen, we are likely to see 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


287 


60 few people just at present. To be sure I have married a 
clergyman myself, but Eustace was quite an exceptional case, 
and clergymen as a rule can scarcely be called eligible, so there is 
nothing for it but that Lady Markland should interfere.” 

, “For Chatty? I beg your pardon, my dear. You are much 
wiser than I am; but in the present case I think Chatty’s mother 
is sufficient for all needs.” 

“ That was always your w*ay, mamma, to take one up at a word 
without thinking. Don’t you observe how awfully quiet Chatty 
is ? Eustace noticed it the very first day. He is very quick to see 
a thing, and he has a lot of sisters of his own. He said to me» 
Either Chatty has had a disappointment or she is just bored to 
death staying at home. I think very likely it is ray marriage that 
has done it, for of course there could have been no disappoint- 
ment,” Minnie added calmly. “ Seeing both me and Theo happy, 
she naturally asks heiself. Am I always to sit here like an old 
person, with mamma?” 

Mrs. Warrender felt the prick, but only smiled. “ I don’t think 
she asks herself that question, but in any case I am afraid she 
must just be left, however dull it may be, with mamma.” 

“ Oh, I hope you will be reasonable,” said Minnie, “ I hope you 
will not stand in poor Chatty’s way. It is time she saw some- 
body, and that peoifie saw her. She is twenty-four. She has not 
much time to lose, Eustace says.” 

“ My dear Minn'e, I don’t object to W’hat you say about your 
sister, that is, I allow you have a right to speak, but Eustace is 
quite a different matter. We will leave him out of the question 
What he may think or say about Chatty is of no consequence to 
me; in short, I think it is very bad taste, if you will allow me to 
say so.” 

“ Mamma! ” Minnie rose up to much more than her full height, 
which was by no means great. “ Is it possible that you would 
teach your owm daughter to disregard what her husband says ? ” 

The righteous indignation, the lofty tone, the moral superiority 
of Minnie’s attitude gave her mother a kind of painful amuse- 
ment. She said nothing, but w'ent to the writing-table at the 
other side of the room. Everything w'as very peaceful, and there 
seemed no possibility of any real disturbance in the calm well- 
being of the family, so far as any ordinary eye could see : Theo 
gone with his bride into a sphere a little above that which be- 
longed to him by nature; Minnie with her husband in all the 


288 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


proud consciousness of virtuous bliss ; Chatty quiet and gen^ 
tie among her flowers. A soft atmosphere of sunshine and 
prosperity, shaded by blinds at the windows, by little diversities 
and contrarieties in the spirit from being excessive and dazzling, 
was all about. In the midst of the calm Minnie’s little theories^ 
of the new-made wife made a diverting incident in the foreground. 
Mrs. Warrender looked at her across the writing-table with a 
smile in her eyes. 

“ I know,” cried Minnie, “ that you had many ways of thinking 
3 did not go in with— but to throw any doubt upon a woineii’s duty 
to her husband I Oh, mamma, that is what I never expected. 
Eustace is of course the first in all the world to me; what he says 
is always of consequence. He is not one to say a word that he 
has not weighed, and if he takes an interest in his sister-in-law, 
it is because he thinks it his duty to me.” 

“That is all very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Warrender, with 
some impatience, “ and no doubt it is a great matter for Chatty 
to have a sister so correct as yourself, and a brother-in-law to take 
an interest in her. But as long as I live, I am the first authority 
about Chatty, and Eustace is not the first authority in the world 
tome. Chatty” — 

“ Were you calling me, mamma ? ” 

Chatty was coming in with a tall vase of flowei*s held in both 
hands. The great campanulas, with their lavish, magnificent 
bells, flung up a flowery hedge between her faee and the eyes of 
the others. It was not that she had anything to conceal, but un- 
deniably Chatty felt herself on a lower level of being, subdued by 
Minnie’s presence. There is often in young married persons a 
pride in their new happiness, an ostentation of superiority in their 
twofold existence, which is apt to produce this effect upon the 
spectators. Minnie and her husband stood between the two 
ladies, neither of whom possessed husbands, as the possessors of 
conscious greatness stand between those who have fallen and 
those who have never attained. And Chatty, wlio had no confi- 
dence to give, Avhose little story was all locked in her own bosom, 
had been fretted by her sister’s questions, and by Mr. Eustace 
Thy line’s repeated references to the fact that she “ looked pale.” 

“ No, my dear. We were talking of you, that was all. Minnie 
is anxious that you should see— a little more of the world.” 

“ Mamma, be correct at least. I said that it ivould be a duty 
for myself if I had any opportunity, and for Frances.”’ 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


289 


Do you mean Lady Mark! and ? ” 

“ Well, she is Frances, I hope, to her husband’s sisters. I said 
it was Frances’s duty, now that she is going into society, to take 
you about and introduce you to people. A little while ago,” said 
Minnie with dignity, mamma was all for gadding about; and now 
she finds fault when I say the simplest things, all because I said 
that Eustace — of course Eustace takes an interest in Chatty, next 
• to his own sisters he naturally takes an interest in you.” 

Chatty placed her tall vase in the corner which she had chosen 
for it, in silence. She expressed no thanks for the interest Eus- 
tace took in her. Neither did Mrs. Warrender say anything fur- 
ther. The chill of this ingratitude had upon Minnie a contrary 
effect to that which might have been anticipiited. She grew very 
hot and red. 

I don’t know what you all mean,” she cried; “ it is what we 
have never met with yet, in all the places we have been. Every- 
body has been grateful to Eustace for his good advice. They have 
all liked to know what he thought. ‘ Try and find out what Eus- 
tace thinks ’ is what has been said; and now my own mother and 
sister ” — Here words failed and she wiped away a few angry tears. 

At this. Chatty’s tender heart was touched. She went to her 
sister and gave her a gentle kiss. “Dear Minnie, I am sure you 
are very kind, and if there was anything to take an interest about 
— But mamma and I have just settled down. We want nothing, 
we are quite happy.” Chatty looked across the room at her 
mother, which was natural enough, but then Mrs. Warrender 
observed that the girl’s eyes w'ent further, that they went beyond 
anything that was visible within those white panneled w’alls. “ Oli 
quite happy,” Chatty repeated very softly with that look into the 
distance, which only her mother saw\ 

“ That may be for the present; but you don’t suppose you will 
always be quite satisfied and happy wdth mamma. That is exactly 
what Eustace says. I never knew anybody to take so little inter- 
est in her girls as mamma does. You will be thrown among the 
little people here — a curate in Highcombe, or somebody’s son who 
lives in the town. Mamma, you may say what you please, but to 
have a little nobody out of a country town for a brother-in-law, a 
person probably Avith no connections, no standing, no ” — Minnie 
paused, out of mere incapacity to build up the climax higher. 

It is not solely characteristic of women that a small domestic 
controversy should excite them beyond every other : but perhaps 


290 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


only a woman could have felt the high swelling in her breast of 
that desire to cast down and utterly confound Minnie and all her 
pretensions by the mention of a name, and the contrariety of not 
being able to do it, and the secret exultation in the thought of 
one day cutting her down, down to the ground with the announce- 
ment. While she was musing her heart turned to Cavendish — a 
relation within well authenticated lines of the duke, very diffei’ent 
from the small nobility of tlie Thyniies, who on their side were 
not at all related to thegreater family of the name. Mrs. Warren- 
der’s heart rose with this thought so that it was almost impossible 
for her to keep silence, to look at Minnie and not overwhelm her. 
But she did refrain, and the consciousness that she had this un- 
answerable retort behind kept her, as nothing cdse could, from 
losing her temper. She smiled with a sense of the humor of the 
situation. 

“It will be very sad, my dear, if Chatty provides Eustace with 
an unsuitable brother-in-law; but wo must not look so far ahead. 
There is no aspirant for the moment who can give your husband 
any uneasiness. Perhaps he would like a list of the ineligible 
young men in the neighborhood ? There are not very many, from 
all that I can hear.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I never knew any one so unsympathetic as you 
are,” said Minnie, with an angry flush of color. Chatty had not 
stayed to defend herself. She had hurried away, out of reach of 
the warfare. No desire to crush her sister with a name was in 
Chatty’s mind. It had seemed to her profane to speak of such a 
possibility at all. She realized so fully that everything was over, 
that all idea of change in her life was at an end forevei-, that she 
heard with a little shiver, but with no warm personal feeling, the 
end of this discussion. She shrank, indeed, from the idea of be- 
ing talked over— but then, she reflected, Minnie would be sure to 
do that, Minnie could not be expected to understand. While Mrs. 
Warrender began to write her letters. Chatty went softly out of the 
room, in her many comings and goings about the flowers She 
had them on a table in the hall, with a great jug of fresh water 
and a basket to put all the litter, the clippings of stalks and un- 
necessary leafage in, and all her pots and vases ready. She was 
very tidy in all her ways. It was not a very important piece of 
business, and yet all the sweet, orderly spirit of domestic life was 
in Chatty’s movements. There are many people who would have 
been far more pleased and touched to see her at this simple work 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMEN 291 

than had she been reading Greek, notwithstanding that the Greek, 
too, is excellent; but it w’as not Chatty’s way. 

Mrs. Warreiider sat at her writing table with a little thrill of 
excitement and ojjposition in her. She saw the angry flush on 
Minnie’s face, and watched without seeming to watch her as she 
rose suddenly and left the room, almost throwing down the little 
spindle-legged table beside her. Just outside the door Mrs. War- 
render heard Chatty’s calm voice say to her sister, “Will you have 
these for your room, Minnie ? ” evidently offering her some of her 
flowers. (It was a pretty blue and white china pot, with a sweet- 
smelling nosegay of mignonette and a few of the late China roses 
sweet enough to scent the whole place.) “ Oh, thanks, I don’t like 
flowers in my room. Eustace thinks they are not healthy,” said 
Minnie, in tones still full of displeasure. Mrs. Warrender was not 
a wise woman. She was pleased that she and the child who was 
left to her were having the better of the little fray. “Eustace 
thinks ” — Minnie might quote him as much as she pleased, but 
she would never get her mother to quail before these words. A 
man may be Honorable and Reverend both, and yet not be strong 
enough to tyrannize over his mother-in-law and lay down the law 
in her house. This is a condition of affairs quite different from 
the fashionable view, but then, Mrs. Warrender was in her own 
house, and quite independent of her son-in-law. She had a ma- 
licious pleasure in the thought of his discomfiture. Cavendish! 
She imagined to herself how they would open their eyes, and 
tasted in advance the pleasure of the letter which she should 
write to Theo, disclosing all that could happen. It seemed to her 
that she knew very well what would happen. The young man 
was honorable and honest, and Chatty "was most fit and suitable, 
a bride whom no parents could object to. As for mysterious re- 
straining influences, Mrs. Warrender believed in no such things. 
She had not lived in a world where they exist, and she felt as sure 
of Dick Cavendish as of herself — that is to say, almost as sure. 

All this might have been very well and done no harm, but in 
the energy of this angry, excited, exasperated, exhilarated mood, 
it occurred to Mrs. Warrender to take such a step as she had 
never done before nor thought herself capable of doing. To make 
overtures of any sort to a man who had showed a disposition to 
be her daughter’s lover, yet had not said anything or committed 
himself in any way, w'ould, twentj'-four hours before, have seemed 
to her impossible. It would have seemed to her inconsistent 


292 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

with Chatty’s dimity and her own. But opposition and a desire to 
liave the better of one’s domestic and intimate opponents are very 
strong, and tempt people to the most equivocal proceedings. Mis. 
Warrender did not wait to think, but took out a fresh sheet of 
paper and dipped her pen in the ink with that impulsiveness 
which was characteristic of her. A note or two had already pass- 
ed letween Dick Cavendish and herself, so that it was not so ex- 
traordinary a proceeding as it appeared. This was what she 
wrote : — 

Deau Mr. Cavendish,— Is it worth while coming to us only 
from Saturday to Monday, as your modesty suggests ? I fear 
Chatty and I, in our quietness, would scarcely repay the long 
journey. But Minnie is with us (with her husband), and she was 
alwavs a much more practical person than her mother. She has 
just been suggesting to me that Theo has now the command of 
covers more interesting from the sportsman point of view than 
our old thicket at the Warren. If, therefore, you really feel in- 
clined to come down for a few days, there will, it appears, be a 
real inducement — something more in a young man’s way than the 
tea-parties at Highcombe. So bring your gun, and let it bo from 
Monday to Saturday instead of the other way. 

We think of our brief campaign in town with great pleasure, and 
a strong sense of obligation to you who did so much for the pleas- 
ure of it. Most truly yours, M. Wakrender. 

She sent this epistle off with great satisfaction, yet a little sense 
of guilt, that same evening, taking particular care to give it to the 
parlor maid with her own hand, lest Chatty should see the address. 
It was already September, and the time of the partridges had 
begun. 


i 


XXXIX. 

I 

When the ladies left London, Dick Cavendish had felt himself 
something like a wreck upon tlie shore. The season was very 
near its end, and invitations no longer came in dozens. To be 
sure, there were a great many other wrecks whose society made 
life tolerable; but he felt himself out of heart, out of temper, 
seized by that sudden disgust with life in general whicli is often 
the result of the departure of one person who has given it a 
special interest. It was a strong effect to be produced by Chatty’s 
unpretending personality, but it effected him more than if she 
had been in herself a more striking personage. For it was not so 
much that her absence made a blank in any of the gay scenes that 
still remained, but that she suggested another kind of scene alto- 
gether. He felt that to say it was a bore to go out was no longer 
that easy fiction which it usually is. It was a bore to go out into 
those aimless assemblies where not to go was a social mistake, yet 
to go was weariness of the flesh and spirit. In the midst of them 
his thoughts would turn to the little group in Half Moon Street 
which had made the commonplace drawing-room of the lodging- 
house into a home. Chatty over her muslin work— he laughed to 
himself when he thought of it. It was not lovely; there was no 
poetry about it; the little scissors and sharp pointed blade that 
made the little holes; the patient labor that sewed them round. 
So far as he was aware there was not much use m the work, and 
no prettiness at all; a lover might linger over an embroidery 
frame, and rave of seeing the flowers grow under her hand; but 
the little checkered pattern of holes — there was nothing at all de- 
lightful in that. Yet he thought of it, which was amazing, and 

-laughed at himself, then thought of it again. He was not what 
could be called of the domestic order of man. He had “ knocked 
about,” he had seen all sorts of things and people, and to think 
that his heart should be caught by Chatty and her muslin work! 
He was himself astonished and amused, but so it was. He could 
not take kindiy to anything now that she was gone, and even in 
the rapidity of the expiring efforts of the season, he felt himself 


294 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


yawn aiul think of quite another scene: of a little house to go 
home to, and say what a bore it was, while Chatty took out her 
imisiiu work. He was so far gone that he scrawled patterns for 
that muslin work over his blotting-books, — arrangements of little 
holes in squares, in rounds, in diagonal formations, in the shape 
of primitive leaf and berry, at w'hicli he would laugh all by him- 
sejf and blush, and fling them into the fire; which did not, how- 
ever, by and means withdraw the siguilicance from these simple 
attempts at ornamental art 

This would have been simple indeed had it been everything. 
All the Cavendishes, small and great, even the highest divinities 
of the name, would have stooped from their high estate to express 
their pleasure that Dick had found the “ nice girl ” who was to 
settle him and make him everything a Cavendish should be. Ah, 
had that been but all! Dick was no coxcomb; but he had read 
so much in Chatty’s modest eyes as warranted him in believing 
that he would not woo in vain. Though he still could laugh, 
being of that nature of man, his heart, iri fact, was overwhelmed 
with a weight of trouble such as might have made the strongest 
cry out. But crying out was not in his constitution. He went 
about his occupations, his Avork. Avhich, noAV that Chatty was gone, 
had few interruptions, his pleasures chewing the cud of the bitterest 
fancy and the most painful thought. He walked about the streets, 
turning it over and over in his mind He thought of it even Avhen 
he made the patterns of the holes and laughed at them, tossing 
them into the fire. Underneath ail his lightest as avcII as his 
most serious occupations ran this dark and stern current The ar- 
7iA^al of Mrs. Warrender’s note, made it still darker and more con- 
stant, carrying him away upon its tide. Tt was not the first, ]o«tor 
he had received from her. He had insisted upon hearing wln'ihrr 
their journev home had been a pleasant one, how they had liked 
their new home, and maiiv other trivial things, and he had asked 
for that invitation from Saturday to Monday, Avhieh uoav was re- 
versed and turned into almost a Aveek, from iMonday to Saturday. 
He did not know whether ne meant to go ; but anyhow the invi- 
tation, the oower of goinr xf he pleased, Avas sweet to him. He 
Keptitbyhi.m as an antit-ipa ion, a sweetmeat Avhich took the 
oitter tR,3te <A life out oi his mouth. 

But this lector was more formal, more business-like, than any- 
thin?^ tlxat had gone before. To go to see the woman Avhom you 
t’-ek the most of in the world, that is a vague thing Avhlch other 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


295 


engagements may pusli aside; but an invitation to go for tlie 
partrdiges is business, and has to be answered. Dick got it at his 
club, where he was lingering though it was September, making 
little runs into the country, but avoiding his home, where he 
knew many questions would be put to him about what he was 
going to do. It is a sad thing when there is nobody wdio cares 
W'hat you are going to do — but this is not the view of the matter 
most apparent to young men. Dick very miich disliked the ques- 
tion. It was not one to which he could give any reply. He was 
going to do — nothing, unless life and feeling should be too much 
for him and he should be driven into doing what would be a vil- 
lainy— yes, a villainy, though probably no harm w'ould ever come 
of it; most probably, almost certainly, no harm would come of it 
— and yet it would be a villainy. These were the thoughts that 
were with him whei*ever he went or came. And after he got 
Mrs. Warrender’s letter they grew harder and harder, more and 
more urgent. It was this wdiich took him one day to the rooms 
of an old gentleman who had not Dick’s reasons for staying in 
town, but others which were perhaps as weighty, which were that 
he was fond of his corner in the club, and not of much else. Ills 
corner in the club, his walk along the streets, his cosy 
rooms, and the few old fogies like himself, sharp as so many 
needles, giving their old opinions upon the events of tne 
time wnth a humor sharpened by many an experience of the past; 
who counted every day only half a day when it w'as spent one of 
towm. Tliis old gentleman was a lawyer of very high repute, 
though he had retired from all active practice. He was a man 
who w’as supposed to know every case that had ever been on the 
registers of justice. He had refused the Bench, and he m.ght 
even have been, if he Avould, Attorney-General, but to all tliese 
responsibilities he preferred freedom and his corner at the club. 
To him Dick went, with a countenance fresh and fair, which 
contrasted w ith the parchment of the law'yer’s face, but a heart 
like a piece of lead lying in his breast, w^eighing dowm every im- 
pulse, which also contrasted strongly, though no one could see it, 
with the tough piece of mechanism, screwed up to a very level 
pitch and now seldom out of order, which fulfilled the same or- 
ganic functions under the old gentleman’s coat. 

“What, Dick! what ill wind— it must be an ill wind-^sends 
you here in September ? You ought to be among the paaWdge^ 
my boy.’^ 


296 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


“ It is an ill wind,” said Dick. 

“No need to teil me that; but judging by your complexion, 
nothing of a tremendous character. Money ? or love ? ” 

“ Well, sir, it is not really iny own business at all. As for my 
complexion, that doesn’t matter. I don’t show outside.” 

“Some men don’t,” said the old lawyer laconically; “ but if 
the trouble is not your own, that is easy to understand.” 

At this Dick gave a short laugh. He wanted it to be believed 
that the trouble was not his own, and yet he did not quite care to 
be supposed indifferent to it. 

“ It’s an old story,” he said. “ It is something that happened 
to — Tom Wyld, an old crony of mine out on the other side.” 

“ I suppose you mean in America. No more slang than you 
can help, please. It’s admirably expressive sometimes, I allow: 
but not being u.sed to it in my youth I have some difficulty in 
following. Well, about Tom Wyld — one of the old judge’s sons 
or grandsons, I suppose.” 

Dick’s complexion heightened a little. “ Oh, not any one you 
ever heard of — a fellow I picked up — out there.” 

“ Oh, a fellow you picked up out there.” 

“It was in one of the new States far West; not the sort of 
place for nicety of any sort, sir, to tell the truth. Judge Lynch 
and not much else in the way of law.” 

“ Works very well I don’t doubt — simplifies business immense- 
ly,” said the old lawyer, nodding his head. 

“ Makes business, too — lots of it. Well, sir, my friend met 
with a girl there.” Dick seemed to have great difiSculty in get- 
ting this out. He stammered and his healthy complexion grew 
now pale, now red. 

“ Most likely — they generally do, both in novels and out of 
them,” the old gentleman said. “ You had better tell me your 
story straight off. I shall interrupt you no more.” 

“ Well, sir, the girl was very young, very pretty, I might say 
beautiful — not like any one he had ever met before. Will tout 
training, but he thought at her pliable age it was so easy to 
remedy that.” (The old lawyer shook his head with a groan, but 
said nothing.) “ She had never seen anything but the rough 
people about, and knew only their maimers and ways. Every- 
thing went well enough for a little while after they were married- 

“ Good Lord, they were married! ” 

“ What else ? ” said Dick, turning scarlet. He respected her 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


297 

as every man must respect the woman he— the woman he— thinks 
he loves.” 

“ I am glad you have the sense to see that he— Well, and what 
was the end of it, Mr. Dick ? ” 

“ The end of it was— what you have foreseen, sir,” said Dick, 
bowing his head. “ The fellow is my friend, that’s to say Tom 
did all he could. I don’t think he was without patience with 
her. Afterward, when she left him for good, or rather for bad- 
bad as could be, he did everything he could to help her. He, 
offered, not to take her back, that was not possible, but to provide 
for her and — and all that. She had all the savage virtues as well 
as faults, and was honorable in her way. She would take noth- 
ing from him, and even made out what she called a paper, poor 
thing, to set him free. She would not take her freedom herself, 
and leave him bound, she said. And then she disappeared.” 

“ Leaving him the paper ? ” 

Yes assented Dick, with a faint smile, “ leaving him the 
paper. He found it on his table. That was six years ago. He 
has never seen her since. He came home soon feeling — I can’t 
tell you how he felt.” 

“As if life w'ere not much worth living, according to the slang 
of the day.” 

“Well, sir,” said Dick, “he’s a droll sort of a fellow. He — 
seemed to get over it somehow. It took a vast deal out of him, 
but yet he got over it in a kind of a way. He came back among 
his own people; and what have they been doing ever since he 
came back but implore him to marry! It would settle liim, they 
all said, if he could get some nice girl, and they have done noth- 
ing but throw nice girls in his way — some of the nicest girls in 
England, I believe,— one” — 

“Good Lord,” said the old man, “you don’t mean to say this 
unlucky young fellow has fallen in love again ? ” 

Dick shook his head with a rueful air, in which it was impossible 
not to see a touch of the comic, notwithstanding his despair* 
“ This is precisely what he wants your opinion about, that is, 
some one’s opinion — for of course he has not the honor of know- 
ing you.” 

“Hasn’t he? Ah! I began to think I remember something 
about your Tom— or was it Dick— Wyld. Tom Wyld— I think I 
have heard the name.” 

“ If you should meet him in society,” cried Dick, growing very 


298 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


red, “ don’t for heaven’s sake make any allusion to this. I ought 
not to have mentioned his name.” 

“Well, get on with the story,” said the old man. He thinks, 
perhaps, ho is free to make love to the other girl and marry — be- 
cause of that precious paper.” 

“ He is not such a fool as that; I, even,” said Dick faltering 
“ know law enough to warn him that would be folly. But you 
know, sir, in some of the wild States, like the one he lived in, 
divorce is the easiest thing in the world.” 

' “ Well, and he thinks he can get a divorce. He had better do 
it, then, without more ado. I suppose the evidence— is #uG- 
cient ? ” 

Dick gave vent to a hoarse, nervous laugh. “ Sufficienc — for 
twenty divorces,” he said. Then he added quickly: “But that’s 
not the question.” 

“Why, what is the question then ? He should be very thank- 
ful to be able to manage it so easily, instead of being dragged 
through the mud for everybody to gloat over in London. What 
does the fellow want ? ” said the old man peevishly. “ Many a 
man would be glad to find so easy a way.” 

Dick’s embarrassment was great, he changed color, he could 
not keep still, his voice grew husky and broken. “ I don’t say 
that I agree with him, but this is what he thinks. It’s easy 
enough, but he would have to summon her by the newspapers to 
answer for herself, which she wouldn't do. And who can tell 
what hands that newspaper might fall into. He says nobody knows 
anything about it here; no one has the slightest suspicion that ho 
ever was married or had any entanglement. And she, poor soul, 
to do her justice, would never put forth a claim. She never would 
molest him, of that he is sure. He thinks”— 

“ You take a great deal of interest in your friend’s cause, 
Dick!” 

For Dick had paused with parted lips, unable to say any more. 

“ I do. It’s a case that has been very interesting to me. lie 
asks why he should take any notice of it at all — a thing done 
when he was scarcely of age, thousands of miles away, a mistake 
' — an utter failure — a — ah ” — Dick had been speaking very rapidly 
against time to get out what he had to say before he was inter- 
rupted; you don’t see it in that point of view.” 

“ Do you mean to say, sir,” said the old gentleman, “ that you 
contemplate betraying a woman by a fictitious marriage, making 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


299 


her cliildren illegitimate and herself a — I can’t suppose that you 
have any real intention of that.” 

Dick, who had got up in his excitement, here sat down sud- 
denly, as if his strength had failed him, with an exclamation of 
horror and alarm. 

“ You don’t see that ? Why what else would it be ? so long as 
there is a Mrs. — what do you call her ? living — living and undi- 
vorced, the union of that woman’s husband with another womans 
could be nothing but a fictitious marriage. There is a still uglier 
word by which it could ])e called ” 

“You forget,” said Dick, “that Mrs. Wyld neither bears that 
name nor lays any claim to it. She put it aside long ago, when 
she went on her own course. It was nothing to her. She is 
not of the kind that try to keep up appearances or— anything of 
that sort. I’ll do her that justice, she never meant to give the— 
the — unfortunate fellow any trouble. She didn’t even want to 
stand ill his way, and told him he should neither hear of her nor 
see her again. She is honest, though she is— She has been to 
him as if she did not exist for years.” 

“ Why does that matter,” cried the old gentleman, “so long as 
she does not exist ? There are women who are mad, and never 
can be otherwise — but that does not give their husbands a right 
to marry again. Divorce her, since you are sure you can do so, 
and be thankful you have that remedy. I suppose this woman is^ 

— not a lady.” . j 

“ No.” Dick spoke in a very low voice. He was quite cowed 
and subdued, glancing at his old friend with furtive looks of 
trouble. Thqugh he spoke as if the case were not his own, yet he 
did not attempt to correct the elder man who at once assumed it 
to be so. lie was so blanched and tremulous, nothing but the red 
of his lips showing out of his colorless face, and all the lines 
drawn with inward suffering, that he too might have been an old 
man. He added in the same low tones: “ A man who is divorced 
would be a sort of monster to them. They would never permit— 
she would never listen.” 

“ You mean— the other ? well, that is possible. There is a 
prejudice, and a just prejudice. So you think on the whole that 
to do a young lady— for I suppose the second is in your own class 
— a real, an unspeakable injury would be better than to shock her 
prejudices ? If that is how you of the new generation confuse 

wliat’s right and wrong” — r 

Dick made no reply. He was not capable of self-defence, or 
even of understanding the indignation directed against him. Me 
continued as if only half conscious. “ It need never be known. 
There is not a creature who knows of it. She sent me her marri- 
age lines and has nothing to prove that there ever was anything 
—and she would not want to prove anything. She is as it sue 

were dead ” i • 

“Come,’ sir,” said the lawyer, “rouse yourself, Dick; she is 

not dead, and for every honorable man that must be enough. 
Don’t bewilder yourself with sophistrfes. Why should you want 


300 


A COVNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


to marry — again? You have had enough of it, I should think, 
or else divorce her, since you can. You may be able to do ihat 
secretly as well as the marriage. Why not ? ” 

Dick said nothing, but shook his head. He was so completely 
cast down that he had not a \vord to say for himself. How he 
could have supposed that a dispassionate man could have laken 
liis side and seen with his eyes in such a matter, it is hard to say. 
He had thought of it so much that all the lines had got blurred to 
liim, and right and wrong had come to seem relative terms. 
“ What harm would it do ? ” he said to himself, scarcely aware 
he was speaking aloud. “No one would be wronged, and they 
would never know. How could they know ? It wotild be im- 
possible. Whereas on the other side, a great scandal and raking 
up of everything, and betrayal — to every one.” He shuddered as 
he spoke. 

“ Whereas on the other side,” said the old lawyer, “there would 
be a betrayal — very much more serious. Suppose you were to die, 
and that then it were to be found out (in the long run everything 
is found out) that your wife is not your wife, and her children— 
Come, Dick, you never can have contemplated a blackguard act 
like that to an unsuspecting girl ! ” 

“Sir!” cried Dick, starting to his feet. But he could not main- 
tain that resentful attitude. He sank down in the chair again, 
and said with a groan, “ What am I to do ? ” 

“There is only one thing for you to do; but it is very clear. 
Either explain the real circumstances to the young lady or her 
friends — or without any explanation give up seeing her. In any 
case it is evident that the connection must be cut at once. Of 
course if she knows the true state of the case, and that you are a 
married man, she will do that. And if you shrink from explana- 
tions you must do it without an hour’s delay.” 

Dick made no reply. He sat for a time with his head in his 
hands; and then rose with a dazed look, as if he scarcely knew 
what he was about. “ Good-by,” he said, “ and thank you. 
I’ll — tell Tom — what you said.” 

“ Do,” said the old lawyer, getting up. He took Dick’s hand 
and wrung it in his own with a pressure that, though the thin 
old fingers had but little force, was painful in its energy. “ You 
don’t ask my silence, but I’ll promise it to you — except in one 
contingency,” and here he wrung Dick’s hand again. “ Should 
I hear of any marriage — after what you have said, I shall certain- 
ly think it my duty to interfere.” 

When Dick came out the day seemed to have grown dark to 
him, the sky was all covered with threads of black, he could 
scarcely see his way. 


XL. 


Nevertheless, Dick went down to Highcombe on the follow- 
ing Saturday. There are two ways in which advice can work: 
one by which the man who receives it is led to abandon his own 
evil way and adopt the good way set before him, which of course 
is the object of all good advice, though one but rarely attained 
to; the other is to make him far more hotly and determinedly 
bent upon his own way, with a sort of personal opposition to the 
adviser, and an angry sense that he has not properly understood 
the subject, or entered into those subtle reasons below the sur- 
face which make a certain course of action, not generally desir- 
able, perhaps, the only one that can be appropriately adopted in 
this particular case. This was the effect produced upon Dick. 
He spent the intervening time in turning it over and over in his 
mind, as he had already done so often, until all the outlines w'ere 
blurred. For a long lime he had been able to put that early, fatal, 
mad marriage out of his mind altogether, finding himself actually 
able to forget it; so that if any one had suddenly accused him of 
being, as his old friend said, a married man, he would have, 
at the first shock indignantly denied the imputation. It had 
lasted so short a time, it had ended in such miserable disaster! 
Scarcely a w'eek had passed before he had discovered the horror 
and folly of what he had done. He had not, like many men, laid 
the blame upon the unhappy creature who had led him into these 
toils. She was no unhappy creature, but one of those butterfly- 
women without any soul, to whom there are no distinctions of 
right and w’rong. He discovered afterwards that if he had not 
himself been honorable, it was not she who would have insisted 
upon the bond of marriage, and whether she had ever intended to 
be bound by it he could not tell. Her easy, artless independence 
of all moral laws had been a revelation to the young man, such as 
arrested his very life and filled him with almost awe in the midst 
of his misery, disgust, and horror. Without any soul, or heart, 
or shame, or sense that better was required from her — this was 
what she was. All the evil elements of corrupt civilization and. 


302 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


savage freedom seemed to have got mixed in her blood: half of 
the worst of the old world, half of the rudest and wildest of the 
new. She had been a captivating wonder to the young English- 
man, accustomed to all the domestic bonds and decorums, when 
he saw her first, a fresh wuld flower, as he thought, with the 
purity as well as the savagery of primitive nature. But afterwards 
it seemed an uncertain matter whether she had ever known Avhat 
purity w^as, or whether those links which bound him to her had 
not bound other men even before his day. She had flung in his 
face those marriage lines Avhich women of the low er classes gen- 
erally hold in such reverence, and had laughed and assured him 
that they were so much waste paper, and that as she did not mean 
to be bound by them, neither need he; and tlien she had disap- 
peared, and for years he had not knowm that she existed. The 
awful discovery that she w'as in the neighborhood of his friends, 
and that he himself might by chance meet her any moment on 
the common road, had turned him to stone. Lizzie Hainpson had 
been her maid during the brief period in which she was his wife, 
and had loved and clung to her, the object of a fascination not un- 
common between w'omen, after every other trace of that episode 
in her life had passed away. Dick Cavendish had not for years 
thought of that miserable chapter in his life until he had by 
chance recognized Lizzie at Underwood. He had even lent iiiin- 
self with no serious purpose, yet with a light heart, to that scheme 
of his family and friends about the “ nice girl ” wdio was to con- 
vert him into a steady member of Society. No doubt the moment 
it h^d become serious he must have felt himself brought face to 
face wdth the burdens and hindrances of his previous career, even 
had he not seen Lizzie TIampson. The reminder of what had 
been, however, came at the exact crisis wdien Chatty 'Warrender 
had (as his errant imagination always pictured her) pushed open 
lightly the door of his heart and walked in with the bowl of roses 
in her hands, and hence all the tumults and storms which had 
suddenly seized again upon a life almost forgetful of any cause 
for these tempests. He knew Avhat he ought to have done then. 
He ought to have flown from Chatty and every other ‘‘ nice girl,” 
as indeed he had done at once, to do him justice. But W'ho could 
have foreseen tliat meeting in London, who pi-ovided against the 
■jieoessity of “ paying a little attention,” to the mother and sister 
of his friend ? And now here was this invitation, which meant 
•-—what did it mean ? 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


303 


It meant at least that Mrs. Warrender did not object to the 
continuance of that intercourse, that perhaps Chatty herself — per- 
haps Chatty — His pulses had been beating hotly enough before: 
but when this thought came, the mingling of a delicious sort of 
intoxicating pleasure with the misery was more than he could 
bear. When he got home to his rooms he opened th^ dispatch box 
which had accompanied him through all his wanderings, and 
which, he suddenly recollected, should “ anything happen to him,” 
held all the indications of a secret in his life without any explana- 
tion of it, and went over his contents. He was interrupted in the 
midst of this by a chance and inopportune visitor, no less than a 
younger brother, who pulled the papers about, and cried. “ Hallo, 
what’s this ?” with the unjustifiable freedom of a near relation, 
bringing Dick’s heart into his mouth, and furnishing him with a 
dreadful example of what might be, were a touch of more author- 
ity laid upon those scattered debris of his life. A young brother 
could be sent away, or otherwise disposed of, but there might 
come those who could not be sent away. When he was alone 
again, he found the few papers connected with his secret amid 
many others- of no consequence, and it gave Dick a curious thrill, 
half of amusement, to think of the spring of astonished interest 
with which some problematical person who might examine these 
papers after his death would come upon this little trace of some- 
thing so different from the tame relics of every day. There was 
the letter which she had left behind her setting him free, as the 
lawless creature intended; there was the marriage certificate, and 
some little jumble of mementos which somehow, without any will 
of his, had got associated with tiie more important papers. Dick 
looked over the bundle as if through the eyes of that man who 
would go through them after his death, finding out this appailing 
mystery. The man would be delighted, though it might not be a 
pleasant discovery; it might (Dick went on imagining to himself) 
throw a horrible doubt, as old What’s-his-name said, upon the 
standing of his widow, upon the rights of his child, but the man 
who found it would be delighted. It would come so unexpectedly 
amid all these uninteresting letters and records of expenditure. 
It would brighten them up with the zest of a story, of a discovery; 
it would add an interest to all the lawyer’s investigations into his 
estate. All the men about would meet and shake their heads 
over it, putting two and two together, making out what it meant, 
probably they would advertise cautiously (which was wdiat Dick 


304 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


himself, as a budding lawyer, would recommend in the circum- 
stances) for hcv, poor creature, sure to be dead and buried long 
before that. They would consult together whether it was neces- 
sary to inform poor Mrs. Cavendish until they had soraelhing 
more definite to say. Dick, looking down the vale of years, saw^ 
or thought he saw, with a curious quiver of his heart between 
pleasure and pity. Chatty in a widow’s cap, shedding tears at the 
sound of his name, absolutely obtuse and incapable of understand- 
ing how any dishonor could have come to her by him. They would 
think her stupid, Dick believed, with a tear stealing to the corner 
of his eye. Yes, she would be blank with a holy stupidity, (Jod 
bless her, idiotic if you like, my fine gentleman, in that— not cap- 
able of understanding dishonor. It w'as with a sort of grim pleas- 
ure that he got up after this and lighted a candle, which shone 
strangely yellow and smoky in the clear September sunshine. “ I’ll 
balk them,” he said to himself, with fierce satisfaction, as if those 
respectable imaginary executors of his had been ill-natured gos- 
sips bent on exposing him. And he burnt the papers one by one 
at his candle, watching the last fibre of each fade away in redness 
and then in blacknes'-, disappearing into nothing. 

And then he packed his portmanteau and went down to High- 
combe. There are some people who will think this inconceivable, 
but then these good persons perhaps had never had a strong over- 
powering inclination to fight against, never been pressed and even 
menaced by an urgent adviser, never recognized the necessity of 
doing one thing which seems to throw them into the arms of the 
other. And below all this contention Dick had a stubborn, strong 
determination to conduct this matter his own way. He had de- 
cided in hi.e mind that it was the best way. If there had been any 
latent doubt on the subject before he consulted his old friend, that 
had been dissipated by the interview and by all the old gentlein.an’s 
cogent reasoning on the other side. Dick felt that he had taken 
the bit in his teeth and would be guided by no man. It was the 
best way, tliere was no risk in it, no wrong in it — certainly no 
wrong. He had not dealt even harshly with that wretched creature. 
He knew that he had been kind, that he had tried every way tore- 
claim her, and she had freed him from every law, human or divine. 
He could get a divorce anywhere, that he knew; but after all a di- 
vorce was but the legal aflBrmation of that severance which had 
been made by nature, ay, and by God. Even the pure law of 
Christianity permitted it for that one cause. Therefore there was 


A coiryrnr oEXTLEMAy. 


305 


no wrong. And to spare publicity was merciful, — merciful to her 
as well as to himself. 

Thus he reasoned, growing more certain on each repetition, and 
packed his pornianteau. But he did not take Mrs. Warrender’s 
invitation in all its fullness. There was a little salve for any pos- 
sible prick of conscience in this. Instead of from Monday to Sat- 
urday, as she said, he kept to the original proposal and w’ent from 
Saturday to Monday. There was something in that; It was a self- 
denial, a self-restraint — he felt that it was something to the other 
side of the account. 

The Eustace Thynnes were still at Ilighcombe when he arrived, 
and Mrs. Warrender had a little foretaste of the gratification 
which she proposed to herself in announcing to Minnie at some 
future period the name of her brother-in-law, in perceiving how 
deeply Minnie wa,s impressed by the visitor, and the evident but 
very delicately indicated devotion with which he regarded Chatty, 
a thing which took the young married lady altogether by simprise 
and gave her much thought. As for Chatty herself, it was with the 
sensation of one reluctantly awaked out of a dream that she suf- 
fered herself once more to glide into the brighter life which seemed 
to come and go with Cavendish as an attendant atmosphere. The 
dream, indeed, had not been happy, but there had been a dim and 
not unsweet tranquillity in it — a calm which Avas congenial to 
Chatty’s nature. Besides that, she was still young enough to feel 
a luxury in that soft languor of disappointment and failure against 
which she had never rebelled, which she had accepted as her lot. 
Was it possible that it was not to be her lot after all ? Was there 
something before her brighter, more beautiful ? not an agitated 
happiness, more excitement than bliss, like that of Theo, not the 
sort of copartnery of superior natures laying down the law to all 
surroundings like Minnie and her Eustace: but something much 
mere lovely, the true ideal, that which poetry was full of— was it 
possible that to herself, Chatty, the simplest and youngest (she 
was older than Theo it was true, but that did not seem to count, 
somehow, now that Theo was a man and married), this beautiful 
lot Avas to come ? She Avas very shy to accept this thought, hold- 
ing back Avith a gentle modesty, trying not to see hoAV Dick’s 
thoughts and looks turned to her — an attitude that was perfect in 
its conformity with her nature and looks, and filled Dick Avith 
lender admiration mingled with a little alarm, such as he had not 


30G a country gentleman . 

heretofore felt; but this attitude filled Minnie with astonishment 
and indignation. 

“ She can’t be going to refuse Mr. Cavendish,” she said after- 
wards to the partner of her thoughts. “ It would be very surpris- 
ing,” said Eustace. “ Oh it must not be allowed for a moment,’ 
Minnie cried. 

On the first evening, which was Saturday, Lady Markland and 
Theo came to dinner : she was very sweet, and friendly and 
gracious to every one; he full of cloudy bliss with all his nerves 
on the surface, ready to be wounded by any chance touch. The 
differing characteristics of the family thus assembled together 
might have given an observer much amusement, so full was each 
of his and her special little circle of wishes and interests; but 
time does not permit us to linger upon the little society. Lady 
Markland attached herself most to the mother, with a curious 
fellow feeling which touched, yet alarmed, Mrs. Warrender. ‘*1 
am more on your level than on theirs,” she whispered. “ My 
dear, that is nonsense; Minnie is as old as you are,” Mrs. War- 
render said. But then Minnie had never been anything but a 
young lady until she married Eustace, and Lady Markland — ah, 
nothing could alter the fact that Lady Markland had already lived 
a life with which Theo had nothing to do. In the midst of this 
family party Chatty and her affairs were a little thrown into the 
background. She fulfilled all the modest little offices of the 
young lady of the house, made the tea and served it sweetly, 
brought her mother’s work and footstool, and did everything that 
was wanted. Dick could not talk to her much, indeed talking 
w^as not Chatty’s strong point; but he followed her about with 
his eyes, and took the advantage of all her simple ministrations, 
in which she shone much more than in talk. 

But the Sunday morning was the best. The Rev. Eustace took 
the duty by special request of the vicar in the chief church of 
Highcombe, and Dick went with the mother and daughter to a 
humble old church, standing a little out of the town, with its 
small enclosure round it full of those rural graves where one can- 
not help thinking the inmates must sleep sounder than anywhere 
else. Here, as it was very near, they were in the habit of attend- 
ing, and Chatty, though she was not a great musician, played the 
organ, as so many young ladies in country places do. When the 
scant green curtain that veiled the organ loft was drawn aside for 
a moment, Dick had a glimpse of her, looking out her music be- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


307 


fore she began, with a chubby-faced boy who was to “ blow” for 
her at. her hand; and this foolish lover thought of Luca della 
Hobbia’s friezes, and the white vision of Florentine singers and 
players on the lute. The puffy-cheeked boy was just like one of 
those sturdy Tuscan urchins, but the maiden was of finer -ware, 
like a Madonna. So Dick thought: although Chatty had never 
called forth such fine imaginations before. They all walked 
home together very peacefully in a tender quiet, which lasted 
until the Eustace Thynnes came back with their remarks upon 
everybody. And in the afternoon Dick told Mrs. Warrender that 
lie must go over and see Wilberforce at Underwood. There w^ere 
various things he had to talk to Wilberforce about, and he would 
be back to dinner, which was late on Sunday to have time for the 
evening church-going. Chatty had her Sunday-school, so it was 
as well for him to go. He set out walking, having first engaged 
the people at the Plough Inn to send a dog-cart to bring him 
back. It w^as a very qdiet, unexciting road, rather dusty, with 
here and there a break through the fields. His mind was full of 
a hundred things to think of; his business was not with Wilber- 
force, but with Lizzie Hampson, whom he must see and ask 
— what was he to ask ? He could scarcely make out himself. 
But she was the sole custodian of this secret, and he must know 
how she could be silenced, or if it would be necessary to silence 
her to keep her from interfering. The walk, though it was six 
long miles, was not long enough for him to decide what he should 
say. He went round the longest way, passing the Elms in order 
to see if the house was still empty, with a chill terror in his heart 
of seeing some trace of those inhabitants whos • presence had been 
an insult to him. But all was shut up, cold and silent; he knew 
that they were gone, and yet it was a relief to him wdien he saw 
with his eyes that this was so. Then he paused and looked down 
the little path opening by a rustic gate into the W'ood which led 
to the Warren. It was a footpath free to the villagers, and he 
saw one or two people passing at long intervals, for the road led 
by the further side of the pond and was a favorite Sunday walk. 
Dick thought he would like to see what changes Warrender had 
made, and also the spot where he had seen Chatty, if not for the 
first time, yet the first time with the vision which identified her 
among all women. He went along, lingering to note the trees 
that had been cut down and the improvements made, and his 
mind had so completely abandoned its former course of thought 


808 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


for another that when Lizzie Ilampson came out of the little 
wood, and met him, lie started as if he had not known she was 
here. There was nobody else in sight, and he had time enough 
as she approached him to recover tlie former thread of his mns- 
ings. She did not recognize him iiiitii they were close to each 
other: then she showed the same reluctance to speak to him 
which she had done before, and after a hasty glance round, as if 
looking for a way of escape, cast down her eyes and head evident- 
ly with the intention of hurrying past as if she had not seen him* 
lie saw through the momentary conflict of thought, and kept Ids 
eyes upon her. “ I am glad that I have met you,” lie said; “ I 
wanted to see you,” standing himself in front of her so that she 
could not escape. 

“But I don’t want to see you, sir,” Lizzie said, respectfully 
enough. 

“ That may be, but still I have some questions to ask you. 
Will you come with me towards the house ? AVe shall be less in- 
terrupted there.” 

“ If I must, I’d rather hear you here, sir,” returned Lizzie. 
“ I won’t have the folks here say that I talk with a gentleman in 
out of the way places. It’s better on the common road.” 

“ As you please,” said Dick. “ You know what the subject 
is. I w'ant to know ” — 

“ AVhat, sir ? You said as I was to let you know when trouble 
came. Now no trouble’s come, .and there’s no need, nor ever 
will be. She would never take help from you.” 

“Why? She has done me harm enough.” 

“ She never says anything different. She will never take help 
from you. She will never hear of you, nor you of her. Never, 
never. Consider her as if she were dead, sir— that’s all her de- 
sire.” 

“ I might h.ave done that before I saw you. But now ” — 

“ You don’t mean,” exclaimed Lizzie, with a sudden eager 
gleam of curiosity, “that you— that after all that’s come and 
gone” — The look that p.assed over his face, .a flush of indigna- 
tion, a slight shudder of disgust, gave her the answer to her un- 
spoken question. She drew herself together again, qulckl.y, sud- 
denly catching her breath. “ I can’t think,” she said, “ what 
questions there can be.” 

“ There is this,” he said; “ I had almost forgotten lier exist- 
ence— till I saw you, but now that is not possible. Look here, I 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


309 


may have to try and get a div'orce — you know what that means- 
out there, not here; and she must have warning. Will you let 
her know ? ” 

The girl started a little, the word frightened her. “ Oh, sir,” 
she cried, “ you wouldn't punish her, you wouldn’t ])ut her in 
prison, or that ? Oh, don’t, sir. She would die — and you know 
she’s not til to die.” 

“You mistake,” said Dick, “there is no question of punish- 
ment; only to be free of each other as if indeed, as you say, she 
were dead to me.” 

“ And so she is,” cried Lizzie earnestly. “ She will never 
have her name named to you, that’s what she says, never if she 
should be ever so — She’s given you your freedom as she’s taken 
hers, and never, never shall you hear word of her more; that 
is what she says.” 

“ Yet she is in England, for all she says.” 

“Did she ever pass you her word not to come to England.? 
But I don’t say as she’s in England now. Oh, it was an ill- 
wind, sir,” said Lizzie with vehemence, “that brought you 
here! ” 

“ It may be so,” Dick returned, with a gravity that went beyond 
any conscious intention of regret he had. “ There is but one 
thing now, and that is that I must be free. Let her know that I 
must take proceedings for divorce. I have no way of reaching 
her but through you.” 

“ Sir, there is somebody coming,” said Lizzie; “pass on as if 
you had been asking me the way. I’ll let her know. I’ll never 
open my lips to you more, nor to any one, about her, but I’ll do 
what you say. That’s the way to the house,” she added, turning, 
pointing out the path that led away from the side of the pond to- 
wards the Warren. He followed the indication without another 
word, and in another minute stood in the peaceful shadow of the 
deserted house. It came upon him chill, but wholesome, life re- 
viving after the agitation of that brief encounter. Divorce! it 
was a bad word to breathe in such an honest place — a bad, blas- 
phemous word, worse than an oatli. He had not meant to say it, 
nor thought of it before this meeting, but now he seemed to be 
pledged to this step involuntarily, unwillingly; was it by some 
good angel, something that was working in Chatty’s Interests and 
for her sweet sake ? 


XIJ. 




Dick went back to town on Monday, having taken no decisive 
step, nor said any decisive words. All that he had done was to 
make it apparent that the matter was not to end there, as had 
seemed likely when they parted in London. Chatty now saw that 
it was not to be so. The thing was not to drop in the mere blank 
of unfulfilledness, but was to be brought to her decision, to yea 
or nay. This conviction, and the company of Dick in a relation 
which could not but be new, since it was no longer accidental, but 
of the utmost gravity in her life, gave anew turn altogether to her 
existence. The change in her was too subtle for the general eye. 
Even Miiinie, sharp as she was, could make nothing mo e of it 
than that Chatty was “ more alive looking,” a conclusion which, 
like most things nowadays, she declared to come from Eustace. 
Mrs. Warrender entered with more sympathy into her daughter's 
life, veiled not so much by intention as by instinctive modesty 
and reserve froju her as from all others; but even she did not 
know what was in Chatty’s mind, the slow rising of an intense 
light which illuminated her as the sun lights up a fertile plain, — 
the low land drinking in every ray, unconscious of shadow, — mak- 
ing few dramatic effects, but receiving the radiance at every 
point. Chatty herself felt like that low-lying land. The new 
life suffused her altogether, drawing forth few reflections, but 
flooding the surface of her'being and warming her nature through 
and through. It was to be hers, then, — not as Minnie, not as 
Theo had it, — but like Shakespeare, like poetry, like that which 
maidens dream. 

Dick went back to town. When he had gone to his old friend 
for advice, his mind had revolted against that advice and deter- 
mined upon his own way ; but the short interview with Lizzie 
Hampson had changed everything. He had not meant to speak 
to her on the subject; and what did it matter though Ije had 
spoken to her for a twelvemonth } She could not have understood 
him or his desire. She thought he meant to punish the poor, lost 


A CO UN THY GENTLEMAN. 


31 1 

creature, perhaps to put her in prison. The word divorce liad 
terrified her. And yet he now felt as if he had coniinitted him- 
self to that procedure, and it must now certainly be. Still a 
strange reluctance to take the first steps retarded him. Even to 
an unknown advocate in the far West a man is reluctant to allow 
that his name has been dishonored. The publicity of an investi- 
gation before a tribunal, even when three or four thousand miles 
distant, is horrible to think of — more horrible than had the Avrong 
and misery been less far away. But after six years, and over a 
great ocean and the greater part of a continent, how futile it 
seemed to stir up all those long settled sediments again! He 
wrote and rewrote a letter to a lawyer whose name he re- 
membered, to whom he had done one or two slight services, 
in the distant State which was the scene of his brief and miser- 
able story. But he had not yet satisfied himself with this letter 
when there occurred an interruption which put everything of the 
kind out of his thoughts. 

This was the receipt of a communication in black borders so 
portentous that Dick, always alive to the comic side of everything 
Avas moA'ed for the moment to a profane laugh. No mourning 
could ever be so deep as this looks,” he said to himself, and 
opened the gloomy missive with little thought. It could, he be- 
lieved, only convey to him information of the death of some one 
Avhorn he knew, and for whom he cared less. But the first glance 
effectually changed his aspect. His face grew colorless, the paper 
fell out of his hands. “ Good God ! he said. It was no profane 
exclamation. What was this ? A direct interposition of Heaven 
in his behalf, a miracle such as is supposed never to happen noAv.a- 
days ? The first effect was to take breath and strength from him. 
He sat with his under jaw fallen, his face livid as if with dismay. 
His heart seemed to stand still; awe, as if an execution had been 
performed before his eyes, came over him. He felt as if he had a 
liand in it, as if some action of his had brought doom upmi the 
sufferer. A cold perspiration came out on his forehead. Had he 
wished her death in the midst of her sins, poor, miserable woman. 
Had he set the powers of fate to Avork against her, he, arrogant 
in his virtue and the happiness that lay Avithin his reach ? 
Compunction Avas the first thought. It seemed to him that he 
had done it. Had he a right to do it, to cut off her time of 
repentance, to push her beyond the range of hope ? 

After this, however, he picked up the letter again with treiu* 


312 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


bliiig hands, and read it. It was froiii a man who described him- 
self as the head of a circus company in Liverpool, with whom 
Emma Altamont had been performing. She had died in conse- 
quence of a fall twm days before. “ She directed me w’ith her 
last breath to wu-ite to you, to say that you wmuld know her under 
another name, whicli she.wms not going to soil by naming it even 
on her death-bed, but that you would know. She died very peni- 
tent, and leaving her love to all her fiicnds. She was well liked 
in the company, though she joined it not so very long ago. A 
few things that she left behind she requested you to have the 
choice of, if you cared for any keepsake to remember her by and 
sent you her forgiveness freely, as she hoped to be forgiven by 
you. The funeral is to be on Sunday, at two o’clock; and I think 
she would have taken it kind as a mark of respect if she had 
thought you would come. I leave that to your own sense of what 
is best. 

This w'as the letter which fell like a bomb into Dick’s life. It 
was long before he could command himself enough to understand 
anything but the first startling fact. She was dead. In his 
heart, by this thoughts, had he killed her, w'as it his fault ? He 
did not go beyond this horrible idea for some long minutes. Then 
there suddenly seized upon him a fiood of gladness, a sensation of 
guilty joy. God had stepped in to set the matter straight. The 
miracle which we all hope for, which never seems impossible in 
our own case, had been wrought. All lesser ways of making 
wrong right w'ere unnecessary now. All w’as over, the pain of 
retrospection, the painful expedients of law, the danger of pub- 
licity, all over. The choice of lier poor little leavings for a token to 
remember her by! Dick shuddered at the thought. To remember 
her by! w'hen to forget her w'as all that he wished. 

It w’as long before he could do anything save think, in confused 
whirls of recollection, and painful flashes of memory, seeing be- 
fore his hot eyes a hundred phantasmal scenes. But at last he 
roused himself to a consideration of what he ought to do. Pru- 
dence seemed to suggest an immediate journey to Liverpool, to 
satisfy himself personally that all was effectually wound up and 
concluded in this miserable account; but a dread, a repugnance, 
wiiich he could not overcome, held him back. He could not take 
part by act or word in anything that concerned her again; not’ 
even, poor creature, in her funeral; not from any enmity or 
hatred to her, poor unfortunate one, but because of the horror, 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


313 


the instinctive shrinking, "which he could not overcome. Dick 
determined, liowever, to send the man who had charge of his 
chambers, a man half servant, half clerk, in whom he could fully 
trust. It \vas Friday when he received the letter. He sent him 
down next day to Liverpool with instructions to represent him at 
the funeral, to offer money if necessary to defray its expenses, to 
let no “ respect” be spared. She would have liked “respect” in 
this way. It would have given her pleasure to think that slie 
was to have a fine funeral. Dick gave his man the fullest instruc- 
tions. “Siiewas connected with — friends of mine,” Dick said, 
“ who would wish everything to be respectably done, though they 
cannot themselves take any part.” “ I understand, sir,” said the 
man; who put the most natural interpretation upon the strange 
commission, and did not believe in any fiction about Dick’s 
“ friends.” Dick called him back when he had reached the door. 
“ You can see the things of v/hich this person writes, and choose 
some small thing without value, the smaller the better, to send 
as he proposes to— the people she belongs to.” Tliis seemed the 
last precaution of prudence to make assurance sure. 

After this, three days of tumultuous silence till the messenger 
came back. He came bringing a description of the funeral, a 
photograph of “ the poor young lady,” and a little ring — a ring 
which Dick himself had given her, so long, so long ago. The 
signt of theee relics had an effect upon him impossible to de- 
scribe. He had to keep his countenance somehow till the man 
had been dismissed. The photograph was taken in fancy dress, 
one of the circus costumes; it was full of all manner of meretri- 
cious accessories,— the stage smile, the made-up beauty, the tor- 
tured hair; but there was no difficulty in recogizing it. A trem- 
bling like palsy seized upon him as he gazed at it; then he lit his 
taper once mone, and, with a prayer upon his quviering lips burnt 
it. The ring be twisted up in a paper, and carried with him in 
his hand till he reached the muddy, dark-flowing river, where ho 
dropped it in. Thus all relics and vestiges of her, poor creature^. 
God forgive her! were put out of sight forevermore. 

Next day Dick Cavendish, a new man, went once more to High- 
combe. He was not quite the light-hearted fellow he had been. 
There was a little emotion about him, a liquid look in the eyes, a 
faint quiver about the mouth, which Chatty, when she lifted her 
soft eyes with a little start of surprise and consciousness to greet 
him, perceived at once and set down to their true cause. Ah, 


814 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


yes, it was their true cause. Here he was, come to offer liimself 
with a past full of the recollections we know, with a life which 
had been all but ruined in times past, to the whitest soul he had 
ever met with, a woman who was innocence and purity person- 
ified; who would perhaps, if she knew, shrink from him. refuse 
the hand which she would think a soiled one. Dick had all this 
in his mind, and it showed on his countenance, which was full of 
feeling, but feeling in which Chatty recognized no complications. 
He found her alone, by the merest chance. Everything seemed 
to work for him in this season of futune. No inquisitive sister, 
no intrusive brother-in-law, not even the mother with her inquir- 

eyes was here to interrupt. The jar with the big campanulas 
stood in the corner; the mignonettes breathed softly an atmos- 
phere of fragrance; her muslin work was in Chatty’s hand. 

Well! he had not a great deal to say. It had all been said by 
his eyes in the first moment, so that the formal words were but a 
repetition. The muslin Avork dropped after a few seconds, and 
Chatty’s hands were transferred to his, to be caressed and kissed 
and whispered over. He had loved her ever since that day when 
she had lightly pushed open the door of the faded drawing-room 
at the Warren and walked in with her bowl of roses. “ That was 
the door of my heart,” Dick said. “You had come in before I 
knew, I can smell the roses still, and I shall ask Theo for that 
bowl for a wedding present. And you, my Chatty, and you ? ” 

Mrs Warrender had her little triumph that afternoon. She said 
with the most delicate sarcasm: ‘I hope, Minnie, that Eustace 
after all will be able to tolerate the new brother-in-law.” Minnie 
gave her mother a look of such astonishment as proved that the 
fine edge of the sarcasm was lost. 

“To tolerate— a Cavendish! I can’t think what you mean, 
mamma! Eustace is not an ignorant goose, though you seem to 
think so; nor am I.” 

I am glad your honors are pleased,” said the ironical mother, 
with a laugh. Minnie stared and repeated the speech to Eus- 
tace, who was not very clear either about its meaning. “ But de- 
pend upon it, dear, your mother meant to be nasty,” he said 
which was quite true. ’ 

After this, all was commotion in the house. Dick, though he 
had been an uncertain lover, was very argent now. He made a 
brief explanation to Mrs. Warrender that his proposal had not 
been made at the time they parted in London, “ only because of 


A COUJVTRY GRNTrEMAJV'. 


315 


an entanglement of early youtli,” which make her look grave. “I 
do not ask what you mean,” she said, “ but I hope at least that it 
is entirely concluded.” “Entirely,” he replied with fervor; 
“ nor am I to blame as you think, nor has it had any existence 
for six years. I was young then.” “ Very young, poor boy,” 
she said with her old indulgent smile. He made the same brief 
explanation to Chatty, but Chatty had no understanding whatever 
of what the words meant, and took no notice of. If she thought of 
it at all she thought it was something about money, to her a mat- 
ter of the most complete indifference And so everything became 
bustle and commotion, and the preparations for the wedding were 
puj in at once. The . atmosphere was full of congratulations, of 
blushes and wreathed smiles. “ Marriage is certainly contagious. 
When it once begins in a family, one never knows where it will 
stop,” the neighbors said, and some thought Mrs. Warrender much 
to be felicitated on getting all her young people settled; and some, 
much to be condoled with on losing her last girl just as she had 
settled down, but these last were in the majority, for to get rid of 
your daughters is a well understood advantage, which commends 
itself to the meanest capacity. 

It was arranged for the convenience of everybody that the wed- 
ding was to take place in London. Dick’s relations were legion, 
and to stow them away in the dower house at Highcombe, or 
even to find room to give them a sandwich and a glass of wine, 
let alone a breakfast after the ceremony, was impossible. Dick 
himself was especially urgent about this particular, he could not 
have told why, whether from a foreboding of disturbance or some 
other incomprehensible reason. But as for disturbance there was 
no possibility of that. Every evil thing that could have in- 
terfered had been exorcised and had lost its power. There was 
nothing in his way; nothing to alarm or trouble, but only general 
approval and the satisfaction of everybody concerned. 


XLII. 


Lizzie Hampson heard, like everybody in the village, of what 
was about to happen. Miss Chatty was going to be married. At 
first all that was known was that the bridegroom was a gentleman 
from London, which in those days was a description imposing to 
rustics. He was a gentleman who had once been visiting a rectory, 
who had been seen in the rector’s pew at church, and walking 
about the village, and on the road to the Warren, Many of the 
village gossips remembered, or thought they remembered, to have 
scan him, and they said to each other, with a natural enjoyment 
of a love story which never fails in women, that no doubt that 
was when “it was all made up.” It gave many of them a great 
deal of pleasure to think that before Miss Minnie had ever seen 
“that parson,” her more popular sister had also had a lover, 
though he hadn't spoken till after, being mayhap a shy gentleman, 
as is seen often and often. He was a fair-haired gentleman and 
very pleasant spoken. What his name was nobody cared so much ; 
the villagers found it easier to recollect him by the cohn- of his 
hair than by his name. It was some time before Lizde identified 
the gentleman whom Miss Chatty was about to marry. She had 
a small part of the trousseau to prepare, one or two morning dresses 
to make, a commission which made her proud and happy, and 
gave her honor in the sight of her fi’iends and detractors, a thing 
dear to all. And then at the very last Lizzie discovered who the 
bridegroom was. The discovery affected her very greatly. It was 
the occasion of innumerable self-arguments, carried on in the ab- 
solute seclusion of a mind occupied by matters with which its ac- 
quaintance is unsuspected. Old Mrs. Bagley talked about the 
marriage to every one who came into the shop. It Avas, she said, 
almost as if it was a child of her own. 

Lizzie Hampson heard all there was to hear, and her mind 
grew more perplexed as time went on. She had the strange ig- 
norances and the still more strange beliefs common to her kind. 
She put her faith in those popular glories of the laAV, at which the 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


317 


better instructed laugh, but which are to the poor and unlearned 
like the canons of faith. It was the very eve of the wedding be- 
fore her growing anxiety forced her to action. When Mr. Wilber- 
force was told that a young woman wanted to see him, he was ar- 
ranging with his wife the train by which they were to go up to 
town to the wedding, not without remarks on the oddness of the 
proceeding, which Mrs. Wilbei'force thought was but another of 
the many signs of the times — which severed all bonds, and made a 
cheerless big hotel better than your own house. The rector was 
in the habit of taking his Avife’s comments very calmly, for he 
himself was not so much alarmed about our national progress to 
to destruction as she was. But yet he had his own opinion on the 
subject, and thought it was undignified on the part of Mrs. War- 
render not to have her daughter married at home. He was only 
to be the second in importance in point of vicAV of the ceremony 
itself, having no more to do than to assist a bishop who Avas of 
the Cavendish clan: Avhereas he considered himself quite man 
enough to have married Chatty out of hand Avithout any assistance 
at all. However, to assist a bishop in the capacity of the parish 
clergyman of the bride was a position not without dignity, and 
he felt that he had little to complain of. He Avent into his study 
to speak to the young woman when the little consultation was 
over. Lizzie Avas seated upon the edge of one of the chairs. He 
was surprised to see her, though he could scarcely have said 
why. 

“ Oh, Lizzie, I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had 
something to do for Mrs. Wilberforce,” the rector said. 

“It does n’t matter, sir. I came to ask your advice, if I may 
make so bold.” 

“ Certainly, certainly, Lizzie — anything that I can do.” 

“ It is n’t for me, sir, it’s for a friend,” she said, with the same 
device AAdiich Dick had employed, but in her case with more ap-. 
propriateness. “ I Avant to ask you, sir, about marriages. Oh, it’s 
very serious, sir, there’s nothing to smile about.” 

“ I Avill not smile then, Lizzie. I shall be as serious as you 
please.” 

“ It’s just this, sir. When a man has been married and has had 
bis Avife run aAvay from him and hasn’t seen her nor heard of her 
for years— for six or seven years— he’s free to marry again ? ” 

“ Do you think so ? I should not like to affirm so much as 
that.” 


3L8 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ But what I want you to tel! me,” said Lizzie, running on very 
quickly and taking no notice of his interruption, “ is whether if it 
could be proved that he had heard of her, tliough lie hadn’t seen 
her, if that would make it any different ?” 

“ I have no doubt that it would make all the difference in the 
world. Even your first statement is doubtful, I fear. I don’t 
think seven years is a sacred period that would justify a second 
marriage.” 

“ I didn’t say seven, sir, for certain. Six or seven.” 

“ That makes little difference. The presumption is, that if he 
has heard nothing of her for a long period she must be dead; but 
of course, if he has heard of her existence ” — 

‘‘ But dead to him, oh, dead to him! ” cried Lizzie, “ leading a 
dreadful life, not a woman he could ever touch, or so much as 
look at again.” 

“I am afraid,” said the rector shaking his head, “though it is 
a very hard case for him, that there is nothing to be done. He 
should try and get a divorce — but that is a serious business. I 
don’t know what else there is in his power.” 

“ Would he be punished for it, sir ? ” 

“ It is not so much the punishment to him. In a hard case 
like this, the circumstances would be very much taken into con- 
sideration. Yery likely it would be only a nominal punishment. 
The fatal consequences are not to the man but to the woman — I 
mean the second wife.” 

“ But she knows nothing about it, sir. Why should she be pun- 
ished ? It’s no doing of hers. She don’t know.” 

” Then, my good girl, you should warn her. Though she 
knows ncLhing about it, and is quite innocent, it is upon her chiefly 
that the consequences will fall. She will not be his wife at all; 
her children, if she has any, will be illegitimate. She will have 
no claim upon him, if he should happen to be a bad fellow- In 
short, if she was married, even as Miss Warrender is going to be 
to-morrow, by a bishop, Lizzie, it would be sim];)ly no marriage 
at all.” 

Lizzie uttered a wild exclamation, clasping her hands, and said, 
“ Oh, sir, is there anything that a woman that wishes her well 
could do ? ” 

“ There is only one thing you can do : to warn her before is is too 
late. Tell her she must break it off, if it were at the last moment 
—if it were at the very altar. She must not be allowed to sacri- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 819 

fice Iierself in ignorance. I’ll see her myself, if that will do any 
good.” 

“ She’s going to he married to-niorrovv,” cried Lizzie breatldess- 
ly. “ Oh, sir, don’t deceive me! there’s not a creature that knows 
about it, not one — and she the least of all. Oli, Mr. Wilberforce, 
how could any judge or jury, or any one, have the heart to punish 
her ? ” 

“Neither judge nor jury, my poor girl; but the law, which says 
a man must not marry another woman while his first wife is living. 
There are many even who will not allow of a divorce in any cir- 
cumstances; but I am not so sure of that. Tell me who this poor 
girl is, and I will do my best to warn her while there is time.” 

Lizzie rose up and sat down again, in nervous excitement. She 
made a ball of her hankerchief and pressed it alternately to each 
of her wet eyes. ‘‘ Oh, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know 
what to do!” she cried 

“ If there is anything that can be done to-night,” he said — 
“ Quick, Lizzie, there is no time to lose, for I must leave early to- 
morrow for Miss Warrender’s marriage.” 

“ And there’s not another train leaves to-night,” exclaimed 
Lizzie; then she made an effort to compose herself, and a courtesy, 
rising from her seat. “ I must do it myself, sir thank you all the 
same,” she said, and went away tottering and unsteady in her 
great trouble : yet only half believing him after all. For how, 
oh, how, ye heavens, could the law punish one that meant no 
harm and knew no evil ? a question which minds more enlight- 
ened than that of Lizzie have often asked in vain. 


XLIII. 


Lizzie had a tiresome argument with her grandmother that night, 
who could not understand why she should be so bent on going 
into Highcombe by the first train. To see Miss Chatty married, — 
that was reasonable enough; but Miss Chatty will not be married 
till eleven at the earliest, perhaps later. Mrs. Bagley knew that 
gentlefolks ran it almost too late, as late as was possible, because 
it was the fashion, or else because they did n’t like to get up so 
early as poor folks, — and why should Lizzie start by the seven 
o’clock train ? But Lizzie was determined, and got her way; de- 
claring that she should stay up all night and do her work before 
she started, sooner than not go. It would not have mattered much 
had she done so, for there was no sleep for Lizzie that night. She 
had not any certainty of being right to support her in Avhat she 
was going to do. She thought of disturbing all the wedding prep- 
arations, stopping the bride with her veil on and the orange blos- 
soms in her hair, and all the guests assembled — for what ? Because 
of one who made no claim, who would never make any claim, who 
had not been heard of for more than six years. That was the Haw 
which disturbed Lizzie. It was not quite out, the seven years. 
Had that mystic period been accomplished, she felt tliat she could 
have left Chatty to the protection of God, But at the outside it 
was only six and a half, and he had heard of her through Lizzie 
herself, — though she inwardly resolved that no inducement on 
earth Avould make her appear before judge and jury to tell that. 
No! she would rather die than tell it. And then her mind came 
back to the picture of the bride in her glistening white silk or 
satin, with tlie veil over her head, and the orange blossoms. To 
stop all that, to turn away the carriages from the door, to set her- 
self up as knowing better than a gentleman like Mr. Cavendish, 
and perhaps making a fool of herself, and not being believed or 
listened to, after all! 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


321 


These thoughts tormented Lizzie all through the night, and she 
got up very early, while it was still dark, and lighted the fire, and 
put everything straight for her grandmother, and made herself a 
cup of tea, which she needed much to settle her agitated nerves. 
Old Mrs. Bagley got up too, disturbed by the sound of some one 
stirring, not without a grumble at being awoke so early. Lizzie 
came and kissed her before she went away. “ Oh, granny, say 
God bless you!” she cried; “for I’m all shaking and trembling, 
and I don’t know what may come to me to-day.” “Lord bless 
the child,” said Mrs. Bagley, “ what’s a-corning to her ? A body 
would think as it’s you as is going to be married to-day. But God 
bless you’s easy said, and meant from the ’art, and* never comes 
amiss; and God bless Miss Chatty, too, the dear, and give her a 
happy weddin’ and a happy life.” Lizzie felt that she could not 
say Amen. It seemed to choke her, when she tried to utter that 
word, for it was little happiness poor Miss Chatty would have, if 
she did what she was going to do. She hurried to the station, 
which was a 1. n ' walk in the fresh morning, feeling the air chill 
and sharp. It was a long way to the station, and then the railway 
made a round, so that an active person w'ould liave found it al- 
most as quick to walk straight to Ilighcombe; and it was between 
eight and nine when Lizzie at last found herself before the door of 
Mrs. Warrender’s house. She thought it looked wonderfully quiet 
for the morning of a wedding, the shutters still closed over the 
drawing-room windows. But it would be vain to attempt to de- 
scribe her dismay M'hen she heard the explanation of this tran- 
quillity. Not here, but in London! Did n’t she know ? the house- 
maid said, who was a girl from Underwood. She thought every- 
body had known. And Lizzie had the sickening consciousness 
that had she inquired a little more closely she might have dis- 
covered it for herself, and saved herself this trouble. She was 
taken in by the sympathizing housemaid to have a second cup of 
tea at least, if not breakfast, and to hear all about the preparations 
and the dresses, which Betsey, though sadly disappointed to miss 
the glories of the wedding, had yet seen and could describe. And 
there was not a train to London til^iearly ten. She asked herself, 
in her dismay, whether it was worth going then, — whether perhaps 
It was not Providence that had stopped her: but then withare- 
turning obstinacy of purpose, determined that she w'ould not be 
beaten, — that whatever hindered she would not be kept back. 

She got to London just at the hour when the wedding party 


322 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


were to leave for church, and found them gone when she arrived 
at the house. Lizzie’s liabits did not consist with taking cabs. 
She had toiled along from the station, hut and weary, on foot, 
‘‘ If you want to catch them up, you had better take an ’ansom,’’ 
said one of the white-neck-clotlied n>en who were busy preparing 
, the wedding breakfast. Lizzie scarcely knew what a hansom was; 
but she submitted to be put into one, and to get with much diffi- 
culty a shilling out of her purse to pay for it. 'J'lie sudden whirl, 
the jar and noise, the difficult getting out and in, the struggle to 
pursue that shilling into a corner of her purse among the pennies 
and sixpences, aided in confusing her brain utterly. She rushed 
up the steps of the church, which were crowded with idlers, not 
knowing what she did. The organ was pealing through the place, 
making a little storm of sound under the gallery, as she rushed in 
desperate, meeting the fine procession, the bride in all that glory 
which Lizzie had dreamt of, which she had been so reluctant to 
spoil: her Avhite dress rustling over the red cloth that had been 
laid down in the aisle, her white veil flowing over her modest 
countenance, her arm in that of her bridegroom ; all whiteness, 
peace, and sweet emotion, joy touched with trembliiig and a 
thousand soft regrets. Chatty came along slowly, her soft eyes 
cast down, her soul floating in that ecstasy which is full of awe 
and solemn thoughts. Dick’s eyes v'ere upon her, and the eyes 
of all, but hers saw nothing save the wonderful event that had 
come to pass, the boundary between the old and the new upon 
which she stood. And Lizzie had forgotten everything that could 
be called reason or coherence in her thought. She forgot her 
doubts, her scruples, her sense of the misery she might make, her 
uncertainty as to whether it might be needful at all. At this mo- 
ment of bewildering excitement she had but one idea. She fell 
down upon her knees before them in the aisle, and caught at 
Chatty’s white dress and the folds of her noating veil. “ Oh, Miss 
Chatty, stop, stop! leave go of his arm! for he is married already, 
and his wife is living.” She lifted her eyes, and there appeared 
round her a floating sea of horror-stricken faces, — faces that she 
knew in the foreground, and iftating further off, as if in tlieair, in 
the distance, one she knew still better. Lizzie gave a shriek which 
rang through the church; “ His wife is living: and she is iieki:! ” 


xLiy. 


The wedding morning had been confusing and full of many oc* 
cupations, as wedding mornings always are. Chatty, left in the 
quiet of her room, had received innumerable little visits: from 
her mother, who came and came again, with a cheerful front, but 
her heart very low, merely to look at her, to give her a kiss in pass- 
ing, to make sure that she was still there; and from Minnie, very 
busy, wanting to have a finger in everything, to alter the bride’s 
dress at the last moment, and the way in which her veil was put 
on. “ For it is quite different from mine,” Minnie cried, “ and it 
stands to reason that there cannot be two ways of putting on a 
veil.” Then there would come a young sister of Dick’s, very shy, 
very anxious to make friends, admiring Chatty and her orange 
blossoms, with that sense of probable future occurrences in her 
own life of the same description which makes sympathy so warm. 
Then Mrs. Wilberforce, who, though disapproving much of the 
wedding in London, was yet mollified by her husband’s share in it 
and association with the bishop; and Lady Markland, who gave the 
bride a kiss of tender sympathy and said nothing to her, which 
Chatty felt to be the kindest of all. Minnie, on the other hand 
had a great inclination from the depths of her own experience to 
give her sister advice. “ You must remember. Chatty, that a man 
is not just like one of us. When you are travelling, you must be 
sure to recollect that: they can’t do with a bun or a cup of coffee, 
or that sort of thing; they must always have something substan- 
tial to eat. You see they take so much more out of themselves 
than we do. And they like you to be ready to the minute, thougli 
you have often got to wait for them : and ” — 

“But, dear Minnie, men are not all alike,” said Mrs. Wilber- 
force, no more than women are. Don’t you think you had 
better leave her to find out for herself? Shewill learn soon 
enough,” she added with a sigh, softly shaking her head, as 
though the experience could not but be melancholy when it came 


324 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


“ Men, like everything else, are changing every day. The chiv- 
alry one used to meet with is quite gone, — but what can you ex- 
pect in these times ? ” 

“ I don’t like this trimming at all,” said Minnie; “ if I were 
you, I would have it taken off. Oh, I am not at all of your 
opinion about the times. We are liberal on both sides. The 
Thynnes have always gone in for the popular side; and when 
you think how much everything has improved *’ — 

“If you call it improvement!” said Mrs. Wilberforce, with 
something like a groan; but whether this was in reference to 
things in general, or to the removal of the tulle trimming over 
which Minnie was holding her hand, it would be difficult to say. 

And thus the morning went by. Chatty took it all very sweetly, 
responding with smiles to every one, feeling the hours pass like a 
dream: until it was time to go into the dream chariot, and be 
carried away to the fulfilment of the dream. In the large, dull 
London drawing-room below, meanwhile, guests were assembling, 
— guests in rustling garments of many colored silk, with bonnets 
which were enough to drive any ordinary mortal out of her senses: 
a little tulle tossed up with flowers or feathers into the most per- 
fect little crown for a fair head, a little velvet with nodding 
plumes that made the wearer at once into a duchess. The 
duchess herself was present, but she was dowdy, as duchesses 
have a right to be. And then the arrivals, the carriages that 
came gleaming up, the horses that pranced and curved their 
beautiful necks, as high-bred as the ladies! Geoff, who had come 
with his mother, posted himself at one of the windows, inside 
the filmy white curtains, to watch the people coming. He sud- 
denly called out “ Mother! ” when it was almost time to start, 
and the brougham was already waiting at the door for the bride- 
groom. 

Lady Markland was standing close by the window talking to 
Dick, who, as bridegrooms often are, was agitated, and required 
support and encouragement. “ What is it, Geoff *? ” she asked, 
in the midst of what she was saying, without turning from her 
other companion. 

“ Oh, look here. I say, thei'e is the lady that was at the big 
house at Underwood, the lady that picked me up the day I ran 
away,— the one that was at the Elms. Look, mamma. Ah, you’re 
just too late,” cried Geoff; “you’re always too late. She’s gone 
now.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


325 


It \v'as Dick, and not Lady Markland, who came forward to the 
window'. “ The lady who was at tlie Elms ? ” he said: and Geoff 
looking up, saw a face that was like ashes looking, not at him, 
but out of the window, with w ide staring eyes. 

Look there— just going away— in a big veil— don’t you see 
, her ? But I saw her face quite plain,— the same lady that took 
me up beside her on the big tall phaeton. I did not like her 
much,” the boy added in an undertone. 

“ I think,” in a still lower voice, almost a whisper, “ you are 
mistaken, Geoff; that lady is dead. 

“ I saw her, all the same,” said the boy. 

Here one of the jocular persons wiio make w'eddings more dread- 
ful than they need to be came forward and touched Dick on the 
arm. “ Come along, old fellow',” he said: “ no skulking; it’s too 
late to draw back. The bridegroom’s carriage stops the way.” 

There are resolute people in the world who can look as they 
please, who can receive a mortal blow', and smile all the time, — 
or, w'hat is still harder, look gravely self-possessed, as if nothing 
had ever happened to them, or could happen to the end of time. 
Dick Cavendish was not of this heroic kind, but yet he managed 
to make himself look as a bridegroom ought, as he w'ent through 
the little crowd and made his way dowmstairs. He said to him- 
self it was not possible. Had not her death been certified beyond 
doubt ? Had not Saunders attended the funeral, and brought 
that photograph and the poor little ring ? Was the certainty of 
sll these facts to be shaken by the random recollection of a foolish 
child, or a chance resemblance which that child might imagine in 
a passer-by ? He said to himself that there could be no greater 
folly than to pay any attention to such a piece of absurdity. But 
as he went out, and all the way along as he drove, b.earing with- 
out paying any attention to the occasional remarks of his best 
man, w'ho was with him, his eyes were searching air)ong the way- 
farers, the little crowal round the door, the other little crowd 
round the church. Just as he stepped inside the portico, turning 
round for a last look, he saw something approaching in a hansom 
— something rather than some om^ a gray veil covering an un- 
seen face. Was it some wminan p^cefully going about her ow'ii 
business, or was it — He went in, feeling all the people in the 
church turn round to look at him; wondeiing if his face w'as like 
the face of a man w'ho w'as going to many' Chatty, or of one w'ho 
was standing by the side of a grave ? When he got up to the 


32G 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


altar, and took his place to wait for his bride, there was a moment 
of silence, during which no intrusive fool could talk to him. And 
in the quiet he stood and closed his eyes, and felt himself — oh, 
not here at the altar, waiting for Chatty in her orange flowers, 
but by the side of the dark pit into which the coffin was descend- 
ing, straining his eyes to see through the lid, if indeed the 'other 
were there. But then, again, with aii effort, he shook his miser- 
able nightmare off. It was not possible he could be deceived. 
What motive could any one h.ave to deceive him ? Saunders had 
seen her buried, and liad brought the photograph and that ring. 
The ring was conclusive, — unless a horrible trick had been played 
upon him there was no room for doubt: and to whose interest 
could it be to play him a trick of this horrible kind ? 

And then came the little rustle and thrill of the arriving train : 
and something white came up, a succession of whitenesses stream- 
ing one after the other, with no sound but the delicate rustle, that 
soft touch upon the air that might almost have been wings. They 
stood together, both but half conscious of what was going on 
around ; Chatty, sweetly wrapped in a maze of soft-coming fan- 
cies of wonder and pleasure and awe and regret; while he, touched 
to the heart by her presence, yet only half aware of it, went 
through the whole in a kind of trance, mingling the words spoken 
with interlinings of unsi^eakable dumb reasonings, self-assurances, 
self-exhortations. Nobody knew anything about all this. The 
ceremony went on, just as such ceremonies go on everyday in the 
year. The bishop said the words, and paused while they were 
repeated ; by one voice firmly and strongly, by the other low and 
unassured, yet clear. And then there was the flutter of tension 
relieved, the gathering round of the little crowd the little proces- 
sion to the vestry where everything was signed, the kissing and 
good wishes. Dick had no mother, but his elder sister Avas there, 
who kissed him in her place, and his younger sister, who was a 
bridesmaid, and hung about Chatty with alf a girl’s eifthusiasm. 
What could be more simple, more natural and true ? There was 
no shadow there of any dread, but everything happy, honest, pure. 
He recovered his soul a little in the midst of that group; though 
when Geoff, with his little sltarp face, in which there always 
seemed more knowledge than belonged to his age, caught his eyes, 
a slight shiver ran over him. He felt as if Geoff knew all about 
it ; and might, for anything he could tell, have some horribl* 
secret to bring forth. 


A COUNTliY GENTLEMAN, 


827 

And then they set out again, tlie husband with his wife on his 
arm, to go away. The touch of Chatty’s hand on his arm seemed 
to restore liis confidence. She was his, in spite of all that Fate 
could do in spite of everything, he thought. They walked to- 
gether— he feeling more and more the pride and triumph of the 
moment, she moving softly, still in her dream, yet beginning, too, 
to feel the reality — past the altar where they had knelt a little 
while before, going down the aisle, facing the spectators who still 
lingered, v’ell pleased to see the bride. And then in a moment 
the blow fell. Some one seemed to rise up before them, out of 
the ground, out of the vacancy, forming before his horror-stricken 
eyes. And then there rose that cry which everybody could hear, 
which paralyzed the bridal procession, and brought the clergymen, 
startled, out of the vestry, and thrilled the careless lookers-on 
“ He has a wife living ! she is living, and she is here! ” Had he 
heard these wmrds before in a dream ? Had he known all along 
that he wmuld hear them ringing in his ears on his wedding day ? 
“ His wife is living: and she is here! ” 

“ What is it ? wiiat is it ? ” cried the w'edding guests, crow'ding 
upon each other; those wiio were nearest, at least, wiiile those at 
the end of the procession paused, with the smile on their lips, to 
stare and wn)nder at the sudden disturbance. Chatty w'as the 
most self-possessed of all. She sa|d softly, “Lizzie, Lizzie! 
Something has happened to her,” and put out her disengaged 
liand in its Avhite glove to raise the girl from her knees. 

“Miss Chatty, it’s you that something has happened to. Oh, 
stop,— oh, stop! there she is! Don’t— don’t let Miss Chatty g) 
away wdth him,— don’t let her go away with him ! ” Lizzie cried. 

“ The wmman is mad,” said some one behind. And so it might 
liave been thought, wdien suddenly those immediately following, 
who had closed up behind Chatty, heard the bridegroom’s voice, 
extremely agitated, yet with a nervous firmness, say audibly, “ It 
is not true. Lizzie, the woman you speak of is dead. I know for 
certain that she is dead.” 

“ Look there! ” the intruder cried. 

And he turned round in the sight of them all, the bride half 
turning too with the involuntary impulse, and saw' behind that 
sea of anxious, wondering faces another, which seemed to float in 
a mist of horror, from under the lialf-lifted cloud of a gray veil. 
He saw this face; and the rest of the w'cdding guests saw his, 
klanched with dread and misery, and knew, every one, that the 


328 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


marriage was stopped, and Chatty no wife, and he a dishonored 
man. 

Her eyes had followed his; she had not looked at him, but still 
held his arm, giving him a support he was incapable cf giving her. 
The face in the back-ground was not unknown to Chatty. She 
remembered it well, and with what a compunction cf pity she had 
looked at it when she met that poor creature on the road at home, 
and wanted in her heart to take the lost one to her mother. She 
did not understand at all what was going on about her, nor 
what Mrs. Warrender meant, who came closely up behind, and 
took hold of her arm, detaching her from Dick. “ Chatty, let us 
get home, my darling. Come, come with me. Theo will take us 
home,” the mother said. 

Then Chatty, turning round wondering, saw lier bridegroom’s 
face. She looked at him earnestly for the moment, holding his 
arm tighter, and then said with a strange, troubled, yet clear 
voice, “ Dick — what does it mean ? Dick! ” 

“ Come home, come home, my dearest I ” cried Mrs. Warren- 
der, trying to separate them. 

“ Come back to the vestry, Cavendish ! ” cried Theo, with threat- 
ening tones ; and then arose a loud murmur of other suggestions, 
a tumult most unusual, horrifying, yet exciting to tlie spectators 
who closed around. The bishop came out, still in his robes, fol- 
lowed by Mr. Wilberforce, hurrying towards the spot. “ What- 
ever the interruption is,” he said, “ don’t stay there, for Heaven’s 
sake. Come back, if you will, oi go home, but don’t us have a 
disturbance in the church.” 

“ Chatty, go with my mother. For God’s sake, Frances, get 
them all away.” 

“ I will not leave Dick,” said Chatty in her soft voice, “ until 
I know what it is. She who was so yielding and so simple, she 
turned round with her own impulse the unhappy young man 
whose arm she held, and who seemed for the moment incapable 
of any action of his own, and led him back towards the place 
from which they had come. The horror had not penetrated 
sufficiently into Chatty’s mind to do more than pale a little the 
soft color in her face. She had grown very serious, looking 
straight before her, taking no notice of anything. They all fol- 
lowed like so many sheep in her train, the ladies crowding to- 
gether, Dick’s sister at his other hand, Mrs. Warrender close be. 
hind, Lizzie carried along with them, now crying bitterly and 


A COUNTnr GENTLEMAN, 


329 


wringing her hands, utterly cowed by finding herself in the 
midst of this perfumed and rustling crowd, amid which her 
flushed and tear-stained face and humble dress showed to such 
strange disadvantage. Unnoticed by the rest, Geoff, who had 
wriggled out of the throng, pursued down the further aisle a hur- 
rying, flying figure and stopped her, holding her fast. 

In the vestry Chatty began to fail a little. She relinquished 
Dick’s arm, and stood trembling, supporting herself by the table. 
“I want him,” she said, faltering a little, mamma, to tell me — 
what it means. There is something — to find out. Dick,” with a 
tremulous smile, “ you have concealed something. It is not that 
I don’t trust you — but tell me” — Then, still smiling, she mur- 
mured, ‘.‘Lizzie — and that^-that poor — girl.” 

Dick had collected himself. “ My darling,” he said, “ I have 
done wrong. I have concealed what you ought to have knowm. 
Warrender, stop before you speak. I married when I was a boy. 
I declare upon my soul that I had every assurance the woman was 
dead. My clerk saw her buried: he brought me the certificate, 
and her portrait, and her ring. I had no reason, no reason at all, 
to doubt. I have no reason now,” he said, with a sudden re- 
covery of courage, “ except what this girl says, — who has no 
way of knowing while my information is sure. It is sure — 
quite sure. Chatty ! can you think I w'ould have brought you 
here to — to — The woman is dead.” 

“ Mr. Cavendish ! ” cried Lizzie, loudly. “You saw lier, as well 
as I.” 

He looked at her for a moment: his face grew once more gray 
as ashes; he trembled where he stood. “ It must have been — an 
illusion,” he said. 

Here Warrender caught Lizzie somewhat roughly by the arm. 
“ If the Avoman is here, find her! ” he cried peremptorily, pushing 
her to the door before him. The church was still full of excited 
spectators, W'hom the vergers "were endeavoring to get rid of. In 
the aisle stood Geoff with some one veiled and mufiled to the eyes. 
The boy was standing in front of her, like a little dog who had 
been set to Avatch. She could not move a step Avithout a move- 
ment on his part. He gave to Warrender a sort of invitation 
with a nod of his little head. “ I’ve got her here,” he said ; then 
whispered, “It is the lady, — the lady that run you over, that 
picked me up, — the lady at the Elms.” 

‘ ‘ At the Elms ! ” There rushed over Theo’s mind a recollection 


330 


A COUNTMY GEJ^TLEMAN, 


of Dick’s visit to the village, of his hurried departure, of agitation 
unnoticed at the time. “ I must ask you to step into the vestry,” 
he said. 

“ Oh, Mr. Warrender,” cried the stranger, I know you, 
though you don’t know me; don’t ask me to do that. What, 
among all those nicely dressed people, and me so— Oh, no, please 
do not ask me, — please don’t ask me! What good could I do ? 
It seems to me I’ve done harm, but I meant none. I thought I’d 
just come and have a peep, after hearing so much about you all, 
and knowing him so long.” 

“ Will you tell me who you are, and what is your connection 
with Cavendish ? Come and let us hear before his face.” 

” Oh, my connection with — Dear, dear! is it necessary to go 
Into that, — a thing of an age ago ? Oh, Lord, Lizzie, let me alone» 
will you! It’s all your doing. Why couldn’t you let things 
alone ? ” 

“ Whatever you have to say, it had better be said before us all,” 
said Warrender, sternly, for various members of the bridal party 
had straggled out, and were listening from the vestry door. He 
took her by the arm and led her into the room. “ What is your 
relation to tliat man? ” he said, keeping his hand upon her arm. 

The wedding guests made a circle round, the clergymen in their 
white surplices among the ladies’ gay dresses, the white figure of 
Chatty leaning with her hand on the table, her mother’s anxious 
face close behind her: poor Dick, in Ids spruce wedding clothes, 
with his ghastly face, stood drawing back a little, staring Avith 
eyes that seemed to sink deeper in their sockets as he gazed. He 
had never looked upon that face since he parted with her in utter 
disgust and misery, six years before. She came in, almost forced 
into the enclosure of those fine people gazing at her, with all her 
meretricious graces, not an imposing sinner, a creature ready to 
cry and falter, yet trying to set up against the stare of the ladies 
the piteous impudence of her kind. 

“ What are you to that man ? ” Theo asked. 

” Oh, what should I be to him ? A gentleman doesn’t ask such 
questions. I — 1 — have been the same to him as I’ve been — you 
know well enough,” she added, with a horrible little laugh, that 
echoed all about, and made a stir among the people round. 

•• Are you his wife ? ’ 

She shuddered and began to cry. “ I — I’m nobody’s wife. I’ve 
been— a number of things. I like my freedom — I She 


A COUJ^TUY GENTLEMAN. 


331 


stopped, hysterical, overcome by tlie extraordinary circumstances, 
and the audience which listened and looked at her with hungry 
ears and eyes. 

Dick put out his arms as if to wave the crowd away. What 
were all the spectators doing here, looking on at his agony ? He 
spoke in a hoarse and husky voice; “ Why did you deceive me ? 
Why did you pretend you were dead, and lead me to this ? ” ^ 

“ Because I’ve nothing to do with you, and I don’t want 
nothing to do with you,” she cried; “ because I’ve been dead to 
you these long years; because I’m not a bad, cruel woman. I 
wanted to leave you free. He’s free for me,” she said, turning to 
Mr. Warrender. It’s not I that wants to bind him. If I made 
believe that it was me that died, where was the wrong ? I wanted 
to set him free. That’s not deceiving; it was for his good, that 
he might feel he was free.” 

“ Answer, woman. Are you his wife ? ” 

What right have you to call me a woman ? His wife ? Who 
can tell whether I wasn’t married before ever I set eyes upon 
him! ” she cried, with a hysterical laugh. “ They don’t think so 
much of that where I came from. There! I hope you’ve had 
enough of me now. Lizzie, you fool, you spoil-sport, you hateful 
creature, give me hold of your arm, and let’s go away! We’ve 
done you harm, Mr. Cavendish, instead of doing you good, but 
that is no fault of mine.” 

There was a pause as she went out of the vestry, holding 
Lizzie’s arm, whose sobs were audible all the way down the aisle. 
It did not last long, but it was as the silence of death. Then Dick 
spoke ; — 

“You see how it is. I married her when I was a boy. She 
deserted me in a very short time, and I have never seen her from 
that day to this, nearly seven years ago. Six weeks since I re- 
ceived information that she was dead. She tells you it was a 
trick, a device; but I — had every reason to believe it. God knows 
I wanted to believe it ! but I thought I spared no pains. Then I 
went to Chatty, whom I had long loved.” Here he paused'to re- 
gain liis voice, which had become almost inaudible. “ I thought 
all was right. Don’t you believe me ? ” he cried, hoarsely, hold- 
ing out his hands in appeal. At first his little sister was the only 
one who responded. She threw herself, weeping, upon one of 
his outstretched arms, and clasped it. Chatty had been put into 
a chair, where she sat now, very pale under the white mist of the 


332 


A COUNTUY GEKTLEMAJY. 


veil, beginning to realize what it was that had happened. When 
she heard the anguish in Dick’s voice, she suddenly rose to her 
feet, taking them all by surprise. Instinctively the party had 
separated into two factions, his side and her side. The group 
about Chatty started when she moved, and Theo seized hold al- 
most roughly of her elbow. But Chatty did not seem sensible of 
his clutch. She went forward to the bridegroom so disastrously 
taken from her, and took his other hand in hers. “ I believe 
you — with all my heart,” Chatty said. “ I blame you for nothing, 
— oh, for nothing! I am sorry — for us both.” 

“ Take her away, mother. The carriage has come round to the 
vestry door. Chatty! This is no longer any place for you.” 

Chatty looked round upon her faction, wdio were encircling her 
with dark or miserable looks. “We are very unfortunate,” she 
said, “ but we have done nothing that is wrong.” 

“Chatty, oh. Chatty, my darling, come away. You cannot stay 
any longer here.” 

“ What, without a w'ord to Dick, mother ! Speak to him. He 
is the most to be pitied. We never thought we should have to 
say good-by again.” Here she paused, and the tears came. She 
repeated in a voice that went to the hearts of all the staring, ex- 
cited spectators, “I am sorry — for us both.” 

“ God bless you, Chatty. God bless you, my own love. And 
must we part so ?” cried poor Dick, falling down upon his 
knees, and sobbing over the hands which held his. He was al- 
together broken down. He knew there was nothing to be said to 
him or for him. It was without help or hope. For a moment 
even Warrender, who was the most severe, could say nothing in 
sight of this lamentable scene: the bride and her bridegroom, 
who had been pronounced man and wife ten minutes before, and 
now were parting, — perhaps forever, — two people between whom 
there was now no bond, whose duty would be to keep apart. 

Chatty stooped over him \vhom she must see no more; her white 
veil fell over him covering them both, she laid her pale cheek 
against his. “ It is not our fault. We are very unfortunate. 
We must have patience,” she said. 

He kept on kneeling there, following her with his eyes, while 
her brother and her mother led her away: then with a groan, he 
•overed his face with his hands. Was this the end ? 


XLT. 


After this extraordinary and terrible event there were a great 
many conferences, and explanations, which did little good, as 
may be supposed. Pick’s life — the part of it which had passed 
during his absence, the wander-year which had brought such pain- 
ful consequences — was laid entirely open both to his own family 
and all the Warrenders. There was nothing in it to be ashamed 
of ; still he had wanted to keep that episode to himself : and the 
consequence, of course, was that every detail became known. He 
had thrown himself into a wild, disorderly population on the edge 
of civilization : people who lived out of reach of law, and so long 
as they were not liable to the tribunal of Judge Lynch, did no 
harm in the eyes of the community. There he had fallen in 
love, being clean and of pure mind, and disposed to think every- 
body like himself ; and had married in haste a girl whom Ids tire- 
some proprieties had wearied at once, and who did not in the most 
rudimentary way comprehend what to him was the foundation of 
life. He shuddered, but could give no coherent account of that 
time. She left him, inclosing him her “ marriage lines ” and a 
paper declaring him to be free. And from that time until she had 
been brought face to face Avith him in the vestry he had never 
seen her again. His old father, whom Dick had been anxious to 
to spare from any annoyance, and who was too old to be present 
at the wedding, had to be called forth from his retirement to hear 
the v/hole story ; his eldest brother, who Avas abroad, hurried 
home to know what Avas meant by the paragraphs in the papers, 
and Avhat it was all about. No particular of bitterness Avas spared 
to the unfortunate young man ; the details of the business were 
discussed at every dinner-party. Had there been collusion ? Had 
he known all the time that the Avoman was not dead ? Society 
did not quite understaiid the want of accordance with conven- 
tional rules that had been shown by everybody concerned. The 
wicked wife ought, to have planned this villainous trick as a way 
of vengeance against him, whereas it was evident that she had 


834 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


meant only kindness, abandoned creature as she was. And the 
poor bride, the unfortunate Miss Warrender, should, with all hei 
family, have sworn everlasting feud with him, whereas it was 
known that Chatty took his part, and would say nothing but that 
they were very unfortunate both. Women should not act like 
this : they should fly at each other’s throats, they should tear each 
other to pieces. But if Chatty (backed up by her mother, it W'as 
said) showed undue indulgence, this w'as not the case with, her 
brother and sister. Theo’s keen temper^had taken up and resent- 
ed the whole matter almost with violence. He had not only 
treated Cavendish, and the Cavendishes generally, who w’ere 
more important than the individual Dick, with harsh contumely 
and enmity, refusing to hear any excuse, and taking tlie oc- 
currence as an insult to himself, but he had quarrelled with 
his mother, who w\as disposed to forgive, and also more vehe- 
mently with Chatty, who made no pretence of any wrath, but 
believed Dick’s story fully, and w'ould not hear anything against 
him. Chatty had a soft obstinacy about her which nobody had 
known till now. She had not broken dowm, nor hidden herself 
from her family, nor taken any shame to herself. She had even 
received him, against the advice of everybody, in a long interview 
hearing everything over again, and fully, from his own lips, and had 
kissed him (it was whispered) at parting, while her mother and * 
his sister, looking on, could do nothing but cry. There began 
after a while to be many people w^ho sympathized wdth these two 
unhappy lovers,— who were not so unhappy, either, because they 
understood and had faith in each other. But Theo made an open 
quarrel with his mother and sister after this meeting. He w^as 
furious against both of them, and even against his wife when it 
became knowui that she had gone to see and sympathize with 
them. Warrender declared that he would consider any man his 
enemy who spoke to him of Cavendish. He w'as furious with 
everything and everybody concerned. He said that he had been 
covered with shame, though how no one could tell. Lady Mark- 
land, who also was on the side of Dick, was helpless to restrain 
him. She too, poor lady, began to feel that her lot was not one 
of unmixed good, nor her bed of roses. Though the force of 
events had carried Theo over all the first drawbacks to their mar- 
never forgotten the bitterness and exasperation 
which these had called forth. He had hot forgiven her, though 
ho adored her, for being sMll Laly M.arkl and ; and though he 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


335 


lived at Markland with her, yet it was under a perpetual protest, 
to which in moments of excitement he sometimes gave utterance, 
but which even in silence she was always conscious of. His 
smouldering discontent burst forth on the occasion given him by 
this mariaye inanquG.- The rage that filled him was not called 
forth by Dick Cavendish alone. It was the outflow of all the 
discontents and annoyances of his life. 

And Minnie’s outraged virtue was almost more rampant still. 
That Eustace should have any connection with a scandal which 
had found its way into the newspapers, that a girl who was his 
sister-in-law should have got herself talked about, was to Minnie 
a wrong which blazed up to heaven. “ For myself, I should not 
have minded,” she said; “ at least, however much I minded I 
should have said as little as possible; but when I think that Eu- 
stace has been made a gazing-stock to the world through me — Oh, 
you may think it extravagant, but I don’t. Of course he has been 
made a gazing-stock. ‘ Brother-in-law to that Miss Warrender, 
you know.’ — that is how people talk: aS if it could possibly be his 
fault! I am sure he bears it like an angel. All he has ever said, 
even to me, is ‘ Minnie, I wish we had looked into things a little 
more beforehand; ’ and what could I say ? I could only say you 
were all so headstrong, you would have your own way.” 

“ Next time he says so, you will perhaps refer him to me, 
Minnie. I think I shall be able to answer Mr. Thynne.” 

‘‘ Oh,” cried Minnie, “ by making a quarrel! I know your way 
of answering, mamma. I tell Eustace, if I had been at home it 
never, never would have happened. I never cared about him from 
the first. There was always something in the look of his eyes, — 
I told Eustace before anything happened,— something about the 
corners of his eyes. I did not like it when I heard you had 
seen so much of him in town. And Eustace said then, I hope 
your mother has made all the necessary inquiries.’ I did not like 
to say, ‘ Oh, mamma never makes any inquiries! ’ but I am sure I 
might have said so. And this is what it has come to! Chatty’s 
ruin,— yes, it is Chatty's ruin, whatever you may say. AVho will 
ever look at her ? — a girl who has been married, and yet isn’t mar- 
ried. She will never find any one. She will just have to live 
with you, like two old cats in a little country town, as Eustace 
says.” 

“ If Mr. Thynne calls your mother an old cat, you should havo 


336 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


better taste than to repeat it,” said Mrs. Warreuder. “ I hope he 
is not so vulgar, Minnie, nor you so heartless.” 

“Vulgar! Eustace! The Thynnes are just the best bred 
people in the world: I don’t know what you moan. A couple of 
old ladies living in a little jjlace, and gossiping about everything, 
— everybody has the same opinion. And this is just what it 
comes to, when no attention is paid. And they say you have 
actually let him come here, let Chatty meet him, to take away 
every scrap of respect that people might have had. Eustace says 
he never heard of such a mistake: it shows such a want of knowl- 
edge of the world.” 

“This is going too far, Minrye; understand, once for all, that 
what Eustace Thynne says is not of the least importance to me, 
and that I think his comments most inappropriate. Poor Dick 
is going oif to California to-morrow. He is going to get his di- 
vorce.,’ 

Minnie gave a scream which made the thinly built London 
house ring, and clasped her hands. “A divorce!” she cried; 
“ it only w'anted this. Eustace said that was what it would come 
to. And you would let your daughter marry a man who has been 
divorced ! ” 

Minnie spoke in such a tone of injured majesty that Mrs. War- 
render was almost cowed; for it could not be denied that this 
speech struck an echo in her own heart. The word was a word 
of shame. She did not know how to answ'er. That her Chatty, 
her child wdio liad come so much more close to her of late, should 
be placed in any position which was not of good report, that the 
shadow of any stain should be upon her simple head, was grievous 
beyond all description to her mother. And she w'as far from 
being an emancipated woman. She had all the prejudices, all the 
diffidences, of her age and position. Her owm heart cried out 
against this expedient with a horror which she had done her best 
to overcome. For the first time she faltered and hesitated as she 
replied: — 

“ There can be no hard and fast rule; our Lord did not do it, 
and how can we ? It is odious to me as much as to any one. 
But what would you have him do ? He cannot take back that 
wretched creature, that poor unhappy girl ” — 

“ You mean that shameless, horrible thing, that abandoned 

“ There must be some good in her,” said Mrs. Warrender, with 
a shudder. “ She had tried to do what she could to set him free. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


387 

It was not her fault if it proved worse than useless. I can’t pro- 
long this discussion, Minnie. Eustace and you can please your- 
selves by making out your fellow-creatures to be as bad as possible. 
To me it is almost more terrible to see the good in them that 
might, if things had gone differently — But that is enough. I 
am going to take Chatty away. ” 

“Away! Where are you going to take her ? For goodness* 
sake, don’t: they will thing you are going after — they will say” — 

“ I am glad you have the grace to stop. I am going to take her 
abroad. If she can be amused a little, and delivered from herself 
— At all events,” said Mrs. Warrender, “ we shall be free from the 
stare of the world, which we never did anything to attract.” 

“Abroad!” Minnie repeated. “ Oh, 1 don’t think — and I am 
sure Eustace would say that you ought not to go away. You 
should live it down. Of course people will blame you, they must, 
I did myself: but after all, that is far better than what it would 
be at a place abroad, where everybody would say, ‘ Oh, do you 
know who that is ? That is Mrs. Warrender, whose eldest 
daughter married one of the Thynnes, whose youngest was the 
heroine of that story, you know, about the marriage.’ Oh, mam- 
ma, this is exactly what Eustace said he was afraid you would 
do. For goodness’ sake, don’t! Stay at home and live it down. 
We shall all standby you,” said Minnie. “I am sure Frances 
will do her very best; and though Eustace is a clergyman, and 
ought ahvays to show an example, yet in the case of such neai 
relations — we ” — 

Mrs. Warrender only turned lier back upon these generous 
l^roinises, walking away without any answer or remark. She was 
too angry to say anything. And to think that there was a germ 
of reality in it all, a need of some one to stand by them, a possi- 
bility that Chatty might be a subject for evil tongues, made 
Chatty’s mother half beside herself. It seemed more than she 
could bear. But Chatty took it all very quietly. She was ab- 
sorbed in the story, more exciting than any romance, which was 
her own story. No thought of what divorce was, or of anything 
connected with it, disturbed her mind. What Dick had to do 
seemed to her natural: perhaps anything he had done in the 
present extraordinary crisis would have seemed to her natural. 
He was going to put things right. She did not think, for the mo- 
ment, what the means of doing so were, nor what in the mean 
time her own position was. She had no desire to make any 


338 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


mystery of it, to conceal herself, or what had happened. There 
was no shame in it, so far as Chatty knew. There was a dread- 
ful, miserable mistake. She was “ very sorry for us both,” but 
for herself less than for Dick, who had suffered, she said to her- 
self, far more than she: for though he had done no wrong, he had 
to bear all the penalties of having done wrong, whereas in her 
own case there was no question of blame. Chatty was so much 
absorbed in Dick that she did not seem to have time to realize 
her own position. She did not think of herself as the chief suf- 
ferer. She fell back into the calm of the ordinary life without a 
murmur, saying little about it. With her own hands she packed 
up all the new dresses, the wealth of the pretty trousseau. She 
was a little pale, and yet she smiled. “ I wonder if I shall ever 
have any need for these,” she said, smoothing down the silken 
folds of the dresses with a tender touch. 

“ 1 hope so, my dear; when poor Dick comes back.” 

Then Chatty’s smile gave way to a sigh. “ They say human 
life is so uncertain, mamma: but I never realized it till now. 
You cannot tell what a day may bring forth: but it very, very 
seldom happens, surely, that there are such changes as this. I 
never heard of one before.” 

“ No, my darling, it is very rare: but oh, what a blessing, Chatty, 
that it was found out at once, before you had gone away ! ” 

Yes, I suppose it was a blessing. Perhaps it would have been 
wrong — but I should never have left him, mamma, had we gone 
away.” 

“ Oh, do not let us think of that! You were mercifully saved, 
Chatty .” 

“ On my wedding day ! I never heard that such a thing ever 
happened to a girl before. The real blessing is that Dick had done 
nothing wrong. That comforts me most of all.” 

“I don’t know, Chatty. He ought, perhaps, to have taken 
better care; at all events, he ought to have let people know that 
he was a — that he was not an unmarried man.” 

Chatty trembled a little at these words. She did not like him 
to be blamed, but so far as this was concerned she could not deny 
that he was in the wrong. It was the foundation of all. Had it 
been known that he was or had been married, she would not 
have given him her love. At this Chatty flushed deep, and, felt 
that it was a cruel suggestion. To find that she was not married 
was a wondering pain to her, which still she could scarcely under, 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


339 


stand. But not to have lovedhitnl Poor Dick! To have done 
him that wrong over and above all the rest, he who had been so 
much wronged and injured! No, no; neither for him nor for 
herself could it be anything but profane to wish that. Not to 
have loved him! Chatty’s life seemed all to sink into gray at the 
thought. 

“ At all events,” she said, returning to those easier outsides of 
things in which the greatest events have a humble covering, “ the 
dresses can wait, poor things to see what will happen. If it should 
so be, as that it never comes right ” — 

“ Oh, Chatty, my poor dear ! ” 

“ Life seems so uncertain,” said Chatty, in her new-born wis- 
dom. “ It is so impossible to tell what may happen, or wdiat a 
day may bring forth. I think I never can be very sure of any- 
thing now. And if it never should come right, they shall just 
stay in the boxes, mother. I could not have the heart to wear 
them.” She put her hand over them caressingly, and patted 
and pressed them down into the corners. “It seems a little 
sad to see them there, does n’t it, mamma, and I in my old 
gray frock ? ” The tears were in her eyes, but she looked up at 
Mrs. Warrender with a little soft laugh at herself, and at the 
little tragedy, or at least the suspended drama, laid up with 
somethiug that was half pathetic, half ludicrous, in the wedding 
clothes. 

Chatty sulfered herself to be taken abroad without any very 
strong opinion of her own. She would have been content to 
adopt Minnie’s way, to go back to Ilighcombe and “ live it down,” 
though indeed she was unconscious of scandal, or of the necessity 
of living down anything. There were some aspects of the case in 
which she would have preferred that, — to live on quietly day by 
day, looking for news of him, expecting what was to come. But 
there was much to be said, on the other hand, for her mother’s 
plan, and Chatty now, as at all times, was glad to do what 
pleased her mother. They went off, accordingly, when the early 
November gales W’ere blowing, not on any very original plan, but 
to places where a great many people go, — to the Riviera, where 
the roses were still blooming with a sort of soft patience which 
was like Chatty. And thus strangely out of nature, without any 
habitual cold, or frost, or rain, or anything like what they were 
used to, that winter, which had begun with such very different 
intentions, glided quietly away. Of course they met people now aud 


340 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


then who knew their story, but there were also many who did not 
know it; ladies from the country, such as abound on the Eiviera, 
who fortunately did not ihink a knowledge of London gossip 
essential to salvation, and who thought Miss Warrender must be 
delicate, her color changed so from white to red. But as it is a 
sort of duty to be delicate on the Eiviera, and robust persons are 
apt to be looked down upon, they did very well; and the days, so 
monotonous, so bright, with so little in them, glided harmlessly 
away. Dick wrote not very often, but yet now and then, which 
was a thing Minnie had protested vainly against: but then, mam- 
ma, Mrs. Eustace Thynne said, had always “ her own ways of 
thinking; ” and if she permitted it, what could any one say ? 


XLVI. 


Mrs, Warrender and her daughter came home in the earlj 
eummer, having lingered longer than they intended in the South. 
They had lingered, f»»r one thing, because a long and strange in- 
terruption had occurred in the letters from America. Dick had 
made tlieni aware of his arrival there, and of the beginning of his 
necessary business, into the details of which, naturally, he did not 
enter. He had told them # his long journey, which was not then 
so rapid as now, but meant long travelling in primitive ways by 
wagons and on horseback; and also that he had found greater de- 
lays and more trouble than he expected. In the spring he M^as 
still lingering, investigating matters which he did not explain, but 
which might very likely facilitate what he had to do and make 
the conclusion more fortunate than he had anticipated. And then 
there came a pause. They waited, expecting the usual communi- 
cation, but it did not come; they waited longer, thinking it might 
have been delayed by accident; and finally returned home, with 
hearts heavier than those with which they went away. Tlieo 
came to meet them at the station, when they arrived in London. 
He was there with his wife in the beginning of the season. Mrs. 
Warrender’s anxious looks, withdrawn for the moment from 
Chatty, fell with little more satisfaction upon her son. He was 
pale and thin, with that fretted look as of constant irritation, 
which is almost more painful to see than the indications of sor- 
row. He put aside with a little impatience her inquiries about 
himself. “lam well enough; what should be the matter with 
me ? I never was an invalid that I know of.” 

“ You are not looking well, Theo. You are very thin. London 
does not agree with you, I fear, and the late nights.” 

I am a delicate plant, to be incapable of late nights,” he said, 
with a harsh laugh. 

“ And how is Frances ? I hope she does not do too much — and 
that your— her ” — 

“ Come, mother, spare me the catechism. Lady Markland is 


342 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


quite well, and my Lord Markland, — for I suppose it was he who 
was meant by ‘ your — her ’ ” — 

“ Geoff, poor little fellow! He is at school, I suppose.” 

“Not a bit of it,” said Warrender, with an ugly smile. “He 
is delicate, you know. He has had measles or something, and 
has come liome to his mother to be nursed. There’s a little too 
much of Geoff, mother; let us be free of him here, at least. You 
aab going to your old rooms ? ” 

“ Yes. I thought it might be a little painful: but Chatty mad? 
no objection. She Said, indeed, she would like it.” 

“ Is she dwelling on that matter still ? ” 

“Still, Theo! I don’t suppose she will ever cease to dwell on it 
till it comes all right.’* 

“ Which is very unlikely mother. I don’t give my opinion on 
the subject of divorce. It’s an ugly«thing, however you take it; 
but a man who goes to seek a divorce, avowedly with the inten- 
tion of marrying again — That is generally the motive, I believe 
at the bottom, but are so bold as to put it frankly en evidenced' 

“ Theo ! you forget Dick’s position, which is so very peculiar. 
Could any one blame him ? What could he do otherwise I hope 
I am not lax, and I hate the very name of divorce as much as any 
one can: but what could he do ?” 

“ He could put up with it, I suppose, as other men have to do, 
and be thankful it is no worse.” 

“ You are hard, Theo. I am sure it is not Frances who has 
taught you to be so hard. Do you think that Chatty’s life destroy- 
ed, as well as his own, is so little ? And no laws, human or divine, 
could bind him to — I don’t think I am lax ! ” Mrs. Warrender 
cried, with the poignant consciousness of a woman who has always 
known herself t6 be even superstitiously bound to every prejudice 
of modesty, and who finds herself suddenly assailed as a champion 
of the immoral. Her middle-aged countenance flushed with an- 
noyance and shame. 

“No, I don’t suppose you are lax.” said Theo; but the lines 
in his careworn forehead did not si'ften, and Chatty, who had been 
directing the maid about the luggage, now came forward and stop- 
ped the conversation. W.arrender put his mother and sister into 
a cab, and promise to “come round ” and see them in the evening. 
After he had shut the door, he came back and asked suddenly 
“ By the way, I suppose you have the last news of Cavendish, 
How is he ? ” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN- 


343 


We have no news. Why do you ask ? Is he ill ? ” 

“ Oh, you don’t know, then ? ” said Warreiuler. ‘‘ I was wonder- 
ing, He is down with fever ; but getting belter, I believe,— get- 
ting better,” he added hurriedly, as Chatty uttered a tremulous 
cry. “ They wTote to his people. We were wondering whether 
you might have heard.” 

“ And no one thought it worth while to let us know!” 

“ Lady Horton thought that if you did not know, it was better 
to say nothing; and if you did, it was unnecessary. Besides, they 
are like me; they think it is monstrous that a man should go out 
with an avowed intention; they think in any case it is better to 
drop it altogether.” 

‘*Theo,” said Chatty, in her soft voice, “can w^e hear exactly 
how' he is ? ” 

“ He is better, he is going on well, he will get all right. But if 
you should see Lady Horton ” — 

Lady Horton was Dick’s elder and married sister, she wlio had 
stood by him on the day that was to have been his wedding day. 

“ I think we had better drive on now,” Chatty said. And when 
Theo’s somewhat astonished face had disappeared from the window 
and they were rattling along over the stones, she suddenly said, 
‘‘ Do you think it should have been — dropped altogether ? Why 
should it be dropped altogether ? I seem to be a little bewildered — 
I don’t — understand. Oh, mamma, I had a presentiment that he 
was ill — ill and alone, and so far away.” 

“ He is getting better, dear. He would think it best not to 
write to make us anxious; probably he has been waiting on day 
by day. I will go to Lady Horton to-morrow.” 

“ And Lady Horton thinks it should be dropped altogether,” 
said Chatty, in a musing, reflective tone. “ She thinks it is mon- 
strous — what is monstrous ? I don’t— seem to understand.” 

“ Let us not think of it till we get home; till we have a little 
calm and — time.” 

“ As if one could stop thinking till there is time ! ” said Chatty, 
with a faint smile. “ But I feel that this is a new liglil. I must 
think. What must be dropped ? Am not I married to him, 
mother ? ” 

“ Oh, my darling, if it had not been for that woman ” 

“ But that woman ? My thoughts are all very confused. I don’t 
understand it. Perhaps he is not married to me — but I have 


344 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


always considered that I— The first thing, however, is his health, 
mother. We must see at once about that.” 

“ Yes, dear; but there is nothing alarming in that, from what 
Theo says.” 

The rest of the drive was in silence. They rattled along the Lon- 
don streets in all the brightness of the May evening; meeting 
people in carriages going out to dinner, and the steady stream of 
passengers on foot, coming from the parks, coming from the hun- 
dred amusements of the new season. Chatty saw them all with- 
out seeing them ; her mind was taken up by anew train of thought. 
She had taken it for granted that all she had done was natural, 
the thing that it was right to do: and now she suddenly found 
herself in an atmosphere of uncertainty to which she was little 
accustomed, and in which, for the moment, all her faculties seemed 
paralyzed. Was it monstrous ? Ought it to have been dropped ? 
She was so much bewildered that she could not tell what to say. 

Theo and his wife both “ came round” in the evening; she with 
a fragile look as of impaired health, and an air of watching anxiety 
which it was painful to see. She seemed to have one eye upon 
Theo always, whatever she was doing, to see that he was pleased, 
or at least not displeased. It had been her idea to go to Lady 
Horton’s, on the way, and bring the last news of Uick. “ Much 
better, going on quite well, will soon be allowed to communicate 
with his friends,” was the bulletin which Lady Markland took 
Chatty aside to give. 

“ He has not been able to write, himself, all the lime. The 
people who have taken care of him — rough people, but very kind 
from all that can be presumed— found his father’s address, and 
sent him word. Otherwise, for six or seven weeks there has been 
nothing from himself.” 

This gave Chatty a little consolation. “ Theo says — it is all wrong, 
that it ought to be dropped,” she said. 

“ Theo has become severe in his judgments. Chatty.” 

“ Has he ? He was always a little severe. He got angry ” — 
Chatty did not observe the look of recognition in Lady Markland’s 
face, as of a fact connu. She went on slowly : “ I wish that you 
would give mo your opinion. I thought for a long time that I was 
the first person to be thought of, and that Dick must do everything 
that could be done to set us right. But now it seems that is not 
the right view. Mamma hesitates; she will not speak. Oh, will 
you tell me what you think ? ” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


345 


About/* said Lady Markland, faltering, •' the divorce ? ’* 

“ I don’t seem to know what it means. That poor creature- 
do people think she is— anything to him ? ” 

“ She is his wife, my dear.” 

“ His — wife ! But then I — am married to Dick.” 

“ Dear Chatty; not except in form, — a form which her appear- 
ance broke at once.” 

Chatty began to tremble, as if with cold. “ I sliall always feel 
that I am married to him. lie may not be bound, but I am bound- 
till death do ye part.” 

“ My dear, all that was made as if it never had been said by the 
aj^pearance of the — wife.” 

Chatty shivered again, though the evAiing was warm. “That 
nannot be ! ” she cried. He may not be bound, but I am bound. 
I promised. It is an oath before God.” 

“ Oh, Chatty, it was all, all made an end of when that wmman 
appeared ! You are not bound, you are free ; and I hope, dear, 
that when a little time has passed 

Chatty put up her hand with a little cry. “ Don’t ! ” she said 
“ And do you mean that he is bound to her,— oh, I am sorry for 
her, I am sorry for her !— to one who has forsaken him, and gone so 
far, very so far astray, to one who has done everything that cannot 
be borne ; and not to me, — by the same words, the same word, which 
have no meaning to her, for she has left him, she has never held 
by him, never; and not to me, who said them w’ith all my heart, 
and meant them \vith all my heart, and am bound by them forever 
and ever ? ” She paused a little, and the flush of vehemence on 
her cheek and of light in her eye calmed down. “ It is not just,” 
she said. 

“ Dear Chatty, it is very hard,— harder than can be said.” 

“It is not just,” said Chatty once more, her soft face falling 
into lines in which Lady Markland saw a reflection of those wdiich 
made Theo’s countenance so severe. 

“ So far as that goes, the law will release him. It would do so 
even here. I do not think there is any doubt of that — though 
Theo says— but I feel sure there is not any doubt.” 

“ And though the law does release him,” said Chatty, “ and he 
comes back, you wdll all say to me it must be dropped, that it is 
not right, that he is divorced, that I must not marry him, though 
I have married him. I know now what will happen. There will 
be Minnie and Theo, and even mamma will hesitate, and her voice 


346 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


will tremble. And I don’t know if I shall have strength to hold 
out! ” she cried, with a sudden burst of tears. “I have never 
struggled or fought for myself. Perhaps I laay be a coward. 1 
may not have the strength. If they are all against me, and no 
one to stand by me, perhaps I may be unjust too, and sacrifice 
him — and myself.’’ 

This burst of almost incredible passion from a creature so tran- 
quil and passive took Lady Markland altogether by surprise, — 
Chatty, so soft, so simple, so yielding, driven by cruel fate into a 
position so terrible; feeling everything at stake,— not only her 
happiness, but the life already spoiled and wasted of the man she 
loved; feeling, too, thajb on herself would depend the decision of 
all that was to follow; and yet seized by a prophetical terror, a 
fear which was tragic, lest her own habit of submission might 
still overwhelm all personal impulses, and sweep away her very 
life. The girl’s face, moved out of all its gentle softness into the 
gravity, almost stern, which this consciousness brought was a 
strange sight. 

“ I do not count for much,” said Lady Markland. “ I cannot 
expect you to think much of me, if your own sister, and your 
brother, and even your mother, as you fear, are against you: but 
1 will not be against you. Chatty. So far as I can, I will stand 
by you, if that will do you any good.” 

“ Oh, yes, it will do me good,” cried Chatty, clasping her liands 
“ it does me good already to talk to you. You know I am not 
clever, I don’t go deep down into things,” she added after a mo- 
ment. “Minnie always said I was on the surface: but I never 
thought until to-day, I never thought— I have just been going 
on, supposing it was all right, that Dick could set it all right. 
And now it has burst upon me. Perhaps, after all, mamma will 
be on "iny side, and perhaps you will make Theo ” — Here she 
paused instinctively, and looked at her sister-in-law% feeling in 
the haste and rush of her own awakened spirit a sudden insight 
of which she had not been capable before. 

Lady Markland shook her head. She w'as a little sad, a little 
overcast, not so assured in her gentle dignity, slightly nervous 
and restless, which was unlike her. “ You must not calculate on 
that,” she said. “ Theo— has his owm way of looking at things. 
It is right he should. We would not wish him to be influenced bv 
— by any one.” 

“ But you are not — any one.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


347 

“ No indeed. I am no one, in that point of view. I am his 
wife, and ought to take my views from him, not he his from me. 
And besides,” she said, with a little laugh, “ I am, after all, not 
like an old acquaint— not like one he has known all his life, 
but comparatively new, and a stranger to his ways of thinking, 
to many of his ways of thinking, — and only learning by degrees 
how he will look at this and that. You don’t realize how that 
operates even when people are married. Theo has very distinct 
views,— which is what he ought to have. The pity is that, I have 
lived so much alone, I have my view's, too. It is a great deal 
better to be blank,” she said, laughing again. Her laugh was 
slightly nervous, too, and it seemed to be intended for Theo, wdiose 
conversation with his mother had now paused, and who was oc- 
casionally glancing, not without suspicion, at his wife and sister 
in the corner. Did she laugh to make him think that there Avas 
nothing serious in their talk ? .She called to him to join them, 
making room upon the sofa. “ Chatty is tired,” she said, “ and 
out of spirits. I want to try and amuse her a little, Theo, before 
Mrs. Warrender takes her away.” 

“ Amusement is the last thing we were thinking of,” he said, 
coming forward with a sort of surly opposition, as if it came natu- 
ral to him to go against what she said. “ ISEy opinion is that she 
should go down to the country at once, and not show at all in 
town this season. I don’t think it would be pleasant for any of 
us. There has been talk enough.” 

“ There has been no talk that Chatty need care for,” said Lady 
Markland, quietly; “ don’t think so,— pray don’t think so. Who 
could say anything of her ? People are bad enough in London, 
but not so bad as that.” 

“Nevertheless, mother,” said Theo, “ I think you and I under- 
stand each other. Chatty and 3'ou have been enjoying yourselves 
abroad. You never cared for town. It would be much better in 
every sense that you should go home quietly no^v ” 

“ We intended nothing else,” said Mrs. Warrender, with a 
slight irritation, “ though I confess I see no reason. But we 
need not discuss that over again. In the end of the week ” — 

“ But this is only Monday. You cannot have aiiything to keep 
you here for three or four days. I think you should go to-mor- 
row. A day’s rest is surely enough.” 

“ We liav'c some people to see, Theo.” 

‘ If I were you, I would see nobody. You will be sure to meet 


348 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


with something unpleasant. Take Chatty home: that is far the 
best thing you can do. Frances would say the same, if she had 
not that unfortunate desire to please everybody, to say what is 
agreeable, which makes women so untrustworthy. But my advice 
is to take Chatty home. In the circumstances it is the only thing 
to do.” 

Chatty rose from where she had been seated by Lady Mark- 
land’s side. ‘‘Ami to be hidden away?” she said, her pale 
face flushing nervously. “ Have I done anything wrong ? ” 

“How silly to ask such q^uestions! Tou know well enough 
what I mean. You have been talked about. My mother has 
more experience; she can tell you, A girl who has been talked 
about is always at a disadvantage. She had much better keep 
quite quiet until the story has all died away.” 

“ Mother,” cried Chatty, holding out her hands, “ take me 
away, then, to-night, this moment, from this horrible place where 
the people have so little heart and so little sensei ” 





XLVIL 


What was Cliatty saying to you ? I rely upon your good 
sense, Frances, not to encourage her in this sentimental folly.” 

“ Is it sentimental folly ? I think it is very true feeling, 
Theo.” 

“Perhaps these are interchangeable terms,” he said, with the 
angry smile she knew so well ; “ but without discussing that mat- 
ter, I am determined that this business shall go no further. A sis- 
ter of mine waiting for a married man till he shall be divorced! 
The very thought makes my blood boil,” 

“ Surely tliat is an unnecessarily strong statement. The circum. 
stances must be taken into consideration.” 

“ I will take no circumstances into consideration. It is a thing 
which must not be. The Cavendishes see it iir precisely the same 
light, and my mother, — even my mother begins to hear reason.” 

Lady Markland made no reply. They were walking home, as 
their house was close at hand, — a house taken for the season, in 
which there was not the room and space of the country, nor its ac- 
tive interests, and w'hich she. having come there with much hope 
in the change, would already have been glad, to exchange for 
Markland, or the Warren, or almost any other place in the world. 
He walked more quickly than suited her, and she required all her 
breath to keep up with him; besides that, she was silenced by 
what he said to her, and did not know how to reply. 

“ You say nothing,” be continued aftera moment, “ from which 
I conclude that you are antagonistic, and mean to throw your in- 
fluence the other way. ” 

'• Not antagonistic; but I cannot help feeling for Chatty, whose 
heart is so much in it, — more, perhaps, than you think.” 

“ Chatty’s heart does n’t trouble me much,” he said, carelessly. 
“ Chatty will always obey whatever impulse is nearest and most 
continuous, if she is not backed up on the other side.” 

“ I don’t believe you realize the strength of her feelings, Theo. 
That is what she is afraid of, not to be strong enough to holdout.” 

“ Oh! So you have been over that ground with her already I ” 


o50 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


Slie spoke to me. She was glad of the opportunity to relieve 
her mind.” 

“ And you promised to stand by her ? ” he said. 

Lady Markland had been a woman full of dignity and compos- 
ure. She was so still to all outward appearance, and the darkness 
concealed the flush that rose to her face; but it could not conceal 
the slight tremor with which she replied, after a pause, “I prom« 
ised not to be against her, at least.” 

A flood of angry w'ords rose to Theo’s lips, the blood mounted 
to his head. He had taken the bias, so fatal between married 
people, of supposing, when his wife disagreed with him, that she 
did it on purpose; not because she herself thought so, but because 
it was opposition. Perhaps it was because of that inherent con- 
tempt for women which is a settled principle in the minds of so 
many men; perhaps because he had been used to a narrow mind 
and opinions cut and dry in the case of his sister Minnie; perhaps 
even because of his hot adoration and faith in Lady Markland as 
perfect. To continue perfect in his eyes, after their marriage, she 
would have needed to agree always with him, to think his thoughts 
He exacted this acCbrd with all the susceptibility of a fastidious 
nature, which would be content with no forced agreement, and 
divined in a moment when an effort was required to conform her 
opinions to his. lie would not tolerate such an effort. He would 
have had her agree with him by instinct, by nature, not even by 
desire to please him, much less by policy. He could not endure to 
think of either of these means of procuring what he wanted. What 
he wanted was the perfect agreement of a nature which arrived at 
the same conclusions as his by the same means; which responded 
before he spoke; which was always ready to anticipate, to give him 
the exquisite satisfaction of feeling he was right by a perpetual sec- 
onding of all his decisions and anticipation of his thoughts. Had 
he married a young creature like Chatty, ready to take the impress 
of his more active mind he might have found other drawbacks in 
her to irritate his amour j^ropre, and probably would have despised 
her judgment in consequence of her perpetual agreement with 
him. But the fact w'as that he was jealous of his wife; not in the 
ordinary vulgar way, for which there was no possibility, but for 
every year of additional age, and every experience, and all the life 
she had led apart from him. He could not endure to think that 
she had formed the most of her ideas before she knew him: the 
thought of her past was horrible to him. A suspicion that she 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


851 


was thinking of that, that her mind was going back to something 
which he did not know, aw'oke a sort of madness in his brain. 
All this she knew by painful intuition now, at first by discoveries 
which startled her very soul, and seemed to disturb the pillars of 
the world. She was aware of the forced control he kept over him- 
self not to burst forth upou her, and she would have fled morally, 
and brought herself round to his ideas and sworn eternal faith to 
him, if it would have done any good. But she knew very well 
that his uneasy nature would not be satisfied with that. 

“ I might have divined,” he said, after a long pause, during 
which they went quickly along, he increasing his pace unawares, 
she losing her breath in keeping up with him, that you would 
see this matter differently. But I must ask, at least, that you 
W'on’t circumvent us, and neutralize all our plans. The only thing 
foi Chatty to do is to drop it altogether, to receive no more letters, 
to cut the whole concern. It is a disreputable business, alto- 
gether. It is better she should never marry at all than marry in 
this way.” 

“ I feel sure, Theo, that except in this way she will never marry 
at all, — if you think that matters.” 

“ If I think that matters! It is not very flattering to me that 
you should think it does n’t matter,” he said. 

And then they reached their house, and he followed her into 
the drawing-room, where one dim lamp was burning, and the room 
had a deserted look. Perhaps that last speech had been a little 
unkind. Compunction visited him not unfrequently. He seated 
himself at the little table on which the lamp was standing, as she 
took off her hat and recovered her breath. Sin‘^e we are at 
home, and alone for once in a way,” he said, more graciously, 

which happens seldom enough, I’ll read to you for an hour, if 
you like, Frances; that is, if you have no letters to write.” 

There was a little irony in the last w’ords, for Lady Markland 
had, if the truth must be told, a foible that way, and liked, as so 
many women do, the idea of having a large correspondence, and 
took pleasure in keeping it up. She answered eagerly that she 
had no letters to write (though not without a glance at her table, 
where one lay unfinished), and would like his reading ^bove every- 
thing: which was so far true that it was a sign of peace, and an 
occupation which he enjoyed, She got her work while he got the 
book, not without a horrible sense that Geoff, always wakeful, 
might have heard her come in, and would call for her: nor with- 


352 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


out a longing desire to go to him, if only for a moment, which 
was what she had intended to do. Perhaps it was to prevent this 
that Theo had been so ready with his offer; and so sensitive was 
he to every impression that the poor lady felt a shiver of terror 
lest her half formed intention, or Geoff’s waking, might thrill 
through the atmosphere to her husband’s mind, and make him 
fling down the book with impatience. She got her work with a 
nervous haste, which it seemed to her he must divine, and seated 
herself opposite to him. “ Now I am ready,” she said. 

Poor Lady Markland! He had not read a page — a page to 
which she gave the most painful attention, trying not to think 
that the door might open at any moment, and the nurse appear 
begging her to speak a word to Lord Markland — when a faint cry 
reached her ears. It was faint and far away, but she knew what 
it was. It was the cry of “Mamma!” from Geoff’s bed, only 
given forth, she knew, after much tossing and turning, and 
which a year ago she would have heard from any corner of the 
house, and flown to answer. She started when she heard it: but 
she had been so much on the alert, and prepared for some inter- 
ruption of the kind, that she hoped Theo did not see the little 
instinctive movement. “Mamma!” She sat with a nervous 
thrill upon her, taking no notice, trying to listen, seeing in the 
dark the little sleepless boy tossing upon his uneasy pillow, and 
calling in vain for his mother, but resisting all the impulses both 
of heart and habit. If only Theo might not hear! After a while, 
however, Theo’s ear caught the sound. “What’s that?” he 
said sharply, stopping and looking at her across the table. Alas, 
the repressed agitation in her smile told its own story to Theo. 
He knew that she pretended to listen, that she knew very well 
what it was. “ PAat,” she said faltering. “What? Oh! it 
sounds like Geoff calling — some one ” 

“ He is calling you; and you are dying to be with him, to rush 
up-stairs and coax and kiss him to sleep. You are ruinin*’’ the 
boy.” 

“No, Theo. It is probably nurse he is calling. He sleeps so 
badly,” she said, with a broken voice: for the appeals to mamma 
came quicker, and she felt as if the child were dragging at her 
very heart-strings. 

“ He would have slept better, had he been paid less attention 
to; but don’t let me keep you from your boy,” he said, throwing 
down the book on the table. She made an attempt at an appeal. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN ^ 353 

“Theo! i^lease don’t go away. I will run fora moment, and 
Bee what is the matter.” 

You can do what you please about that: but you are ruining 
the boy,” said Warrender. And then he began to lium a tune, 
which showed that he had reached a white heat of exasperation, 
and left the room. She sat motionless till she heard the street 
door closed loudly. Her heart seemed to standstill: was there, 
was it possible, a certain relief in the sound ? She stole up- 
stairs noiselessly and into Geoff’s room, and threw herself down 
by the bedside, 

“ Oh, Geoff, what is the matter ? ” Though her heart had 
dragged her so, there was in her tone a tender exasperation, too. 

“I can’t sleep,” the boy said, clinging to her, with his arms 
round her neck. 

But yoii must try to sleep, for ray sake. Don’t toss about, but 
lie quite still: that is far the best way,” 

“ I did,” said Geoff, and said all the poetry I knew, and did 
the multiplication table twice. I wanted you. I kept quiet as 
long as I could; but I wanted you so.” 

But you must not want me, \’ou are too big to want your 
mother.” 

“I shall never be too big: I want you always,” said Geoff, 
murmuring in the dark, with his little arms clinging close round 
her neck. 

“ Oh, Geoff, my dearest boy I but for my sake you must content 
yourself, — for my sake.” 

“Was he angry? ’’the child asked: and in the cover of the 
darkness he clenched his little hands and contracted his brows, 
all of which she guessed, though she saw it not 

“ That is not a question to ask,” she said. “ You must never 
speak to me so; and remember, Geoff, — they say I am spoiling 
yon, — I will never come when you call me, after to-night.” 

But Lady Markland’s heart was veiy heavy as she Ment down- 
stairs. She had put her child away from her; and she sat alone 
in the large still drawing-room all the evening, hearing the car- 
riages come and go outside, and hansoms dashing up, which she 
hoped might be coming to her own door. But Theo did not come 
back. This was one of many evenings which she spent alone, in 
disgrace, not knowing how to get her pardon, feeling guilty, yet 
having done nothing. Her second venture had not brought her 
very much additional happiness so far. 



y(? 


XLVIII. 


“ Two little girls. He came over to tell us yesterday. Poor 
Tlieo ! He is pleased, of course, but I think half ashamed too. 
It seems a little ridiculous to have twins, and the first.’* 

“I can’t think how you can say it is ridiculous. It is very in- 
teresting. But nowadays people seem to be ashamed of having 
children at all. It used to be thought the strength of a country, 
and doing your duty to the state. But people have different no- 
tions now.” 

“ Well,” said the rector, “ I should have thought Theo would 
be pleased; for he likes to be original in everything, and two lit- 
tle girls are as unlike as possible to one little boy.” 

Mrs. Warrender’s eyes shot forth a gleam, half of humorous 
acquiescence, half of irritation that Mr. Wilberforce should have 
divined her son’s state of mind. She had come to the Warren 
with Chatty for a few weeks, for what they .called “change;” 
though the change of a six miles’ journey was not much. The 
Warren bore a very different aspect now from that which it had 
borne in former days. It was light and cheerful; some new rooms 
had been built, which broke the commonplace outline of the 
respectable house. It was newly furnished with furniture not at 
all resembling the mahogany catafalques. Only the hall, which 
had been old-fashioned and harmonious in which Chatty was at- 
tending to the flowers, was the same; and so far as that went, it 
might have been the very day on which Dick Cavendish had paid 
his first visit, when Chatty with her bowl of roses had walked, as 
he declared, into his heart. There were .still roses of the second 
bloom, with the heat of July in their fervent hearts: and she 
stood at the table arranging them, changed, indeed, but not so 
changed as to affect the indifferent spectator, to whom she still 
seemed a part of the background, a figure passive though sweet, 
with no immediate vocation in life. Old Joseph, too, was in the 


356 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


depths of the hall, just visible, doing something.— something 
that was not of the least urgency or importance, but which kept 
him about and hearing all that passed. He and his old wife were 
in charge of the Warren, in the present changed days : and 
though they both half resented the fact that the young master had 
abandoned his own house, they were yet more than half pleased 
to have this tranquillity and ease at the end of their long service. 
To do them justice, they had been glad to receive their old mis- 
tress and her daughter, welcoming them as visitors, with a sense 
of hospitality, and declared that they did not mind the trouble, 
notwithstanding that Joseph's health was bad, and late dinner 
had always been an affliction to his wife. 

“ I hope,” Mrs. Warrender said, continuing the conversation, 
“ that the two little girls will soon make their own welcome, as 
babies have a way of doing, and convince everybody that they are 
much sweeter than any one little boy.” 

This was how Theo’s mother took the sting out of the rector’s 
speech, which was not intended to have any sting, and was only 
a stray gleam of insight amid his confused realization of the state 
of affairs; but it was so true that it was difficult to believe it was 
that, and no more. The Wilberforces had come to inquire, not 
only for Lady Markland and her babies, but into many other 
things, could they have found the opportunity. But Chatty’s 
presence stopped even Mrs. Wilberforce’s mouth. And when the 
visitors went in to inspect all the improvements and the new 
decorations and furniture, Chatty came with them and followed 
everywhere, which seemed very strange to the rector’s wife. Did 
she mean to prevent them from talking ? Was that her purpose? 
She took little part in the conversation. She was more silent 
than she had ever been, though she had never been given to much 
conversation ; and yet she came with them wherever they went, 
putting an eifectual stop to the questions that quivered on the 
very edge of Mrs. Wilberforce's lips. Nor had the rector the 
sense, which he might so easily have had, to engage her in talk, 
to occupy her attention, and leave his wife free to speak. Any- 
body but a man would have had the sense to have done that: but 
a man is an unteachable creature, and never will divine the things 
that are required of him which cannot be told him in plain words. 
Accordingly, the whf)le party strolled from one room to another, 
commenting upon the new arrangements without a possibility of 
any enlightenment as to the real state of affairs. Mrs. Wilberforce 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 367 

was very indignant with her husband as they left, — an indigna^ 
tion that seemed quite uncalled for to this injured man. 

‘‘What you could have done ? Wliy, you could have talked to 
Chatty: You could have interested her on some subject or an- 
other, about where they were abroad, ot about the parish, or — 
Dear me, there are always plenty of subjects. When you kmew 
how anxious I was to find out all about it! Dick Cave.ndish is a 
great deal more a friend of yours than he was of theirs until this 
unfortunate business came about, and it seems very strange that 
we should know nothing. Why, I don’t know even what to call 
her, — whether she is still Miss Warreiider, or what she is.” 

“ You would not call her Miss Warrender in any case,” said the 
rector, with a little self-assertion. “ But of course you know that 
is her name: for the moment the other wife was proved to be liv- 
ing, poor Chatty’s marriage was as if it had never been.” 

“Well, that is what I cannot understand, Herbert: to be mar- 
ried just like anybody else, and the ring i)ut on, and everything 
(by the way, I did notice that she does not wear her ring), and 
then that it should be as if it had not l)een. Digamy one can 
understand, but how it should come to mean nothing! And do 
you intend me to beiieve that she could marry somebody else, the 
same as if it had never happened ?” 

“ To-morrow, if she likes, — and I wish she would, poor Chatty. 
It would be the best way of cutting the knot.” 

“ Then I can tell you one thing that all your superior informa- 
tion w'ould never teach you,” cried Mrs. Wilberforce, — “ that tike 
never willl Ton may take my word for it. Chatty has far too 
much principle. What! be married to one man in church, and 
then go and be married to another! Never. Herbert! Oh, you 
may tell me the ceremony is nothing, and that they can have 
nothing to say to each other, and all that: it may be quite true, 
but that Chatty will ever marry any one else is not true. She 
will never do it. For anything I can tell, or you can tell, she may 
never see Dick Cavendish agaiin But she will never marry any 
one else. It is very hard to be sure of anything nowadays, when 
all the landmarks are being changed, and the country is going 
headlong to — But if I know anything, I hope I know Chatty 
Warrender: and that, you may be sure, she will never do.” 

This flood of eloquence silenced the rector: and indeed lie had 
no objection to make; for he was aware of all those .sacred Y)reju- 
dices that are bound in the hearts of women every where, and es-. 


358 A COLNTRY GENTLEMAN, 

pecially of ladies in tjie country, and he believed it very likely 
that Chatty would feel herself bound forever by what was no 
bond at all. 

In the mean time there had been only one letter from Dick, a 
short and hasty one, telling that he was better, explaining that he 
had not been able to let them know of his illness, and announcing 
that he was off again as soon as he should be able to move upon 
his search. Chatty and her mother wondered over this, without 
communicating its contents to anyone. His search. — what did 
his search mean? There was no search wanted for those pro- 
ceedings which he hail declared were so easy and so certain at 
that far end of the world. Evidently they had not been so easy, 
and the words that he used were very strange to the ladies. He 
had no doubt, he said, of his success. Doubt! He had spoken of 
it before he went away as a thing which only required asking for, 
to have; and the idea that there was no doubt at once gave em- 
bodiment and force to the doubt which had never existed. Mrs. 
Warrender had joined the forces of the opposing party from the 
moment she had read this letter. After a day or two of great de- 
pression and seriousness, she had taken Chatty into her arms and 
advised her to give up the lover, the husband, who was no hus- 
band, and perhaps an unfaithful lover. “ I said nothing at first,” 
Mrs. Warrender had said with tears. “ I stood by him when there 
was so much against him. I believed every word he said, not- 
withstanding everything. But now, my darling,— oh. Chatty, 
now! He was to be gone for three months at the outside, and 
now it is eight. And he was quite sure of being able to do his 
business at once; but now he says that he has no doubt, and that 
he is off on his search. His search for what ? Oh, my de.arest, I 
am most reluctant to say it, but I fear Theo is right. To think 
of a man trying, and perhaps trying in vain, to get a divorce in 
order to marry 2/oit.' Chatty, it is a thing that cannot be; it is 
impossible, it is disreputable. A divorced man is bad enough, — 
you know how Minnie spoke even of that, — but a man who is 
trying for a divorce with the object— Chatty, my darling, it is a 
thing which cannot be.” 

Chatty was not a girl of many words, nor did she commit her- 
self to argument: she would enter into no controversy with In'r 
mother. She said only that she was married to Dick. It might 
be that he was not manaed to her. She might never see Inm 
again: but she was bound forever. And in the mean time, until 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


359 


they knew all the circumstances, how could they discuss the mat- 
ter ? When Dick returned, and gave them the necessary infor- 
mation, then it would be time enough: at present slie had noth- 
ing else to say. And nothing more could be got from her. Minnie 
came and quoted Eustace; but Chatty only walked out of the 
room, leaving her sister in possession of tlie field, thougli without 
any of the satisfaction of a victory. And Theo came, but he con- 
tented himself with talking to his motlier. Something of natural 
diffidence or feeling prevented him from assailing Chatty in the 
stronghold of tliat modest determination >vhich they all called 
obstinacy. When Theo came lie made his mother miserable, al- 
most commanding her to use her authority, declaring that it 
would be her fault if this farce went on, — this disreputable farce, 
he called it; while poor Mrs. Warrender, now as much opposed 
to it as he, had to bear the brunt of his objurgations until she 
was driven to make a stand for the very object which she most 
disapproved. 

In the midst of all this Chatty stood firm. If she wept it was 
in the solitude of lier own chamber, from which even her mother 
was shut out; if she ever wavered or broke down, it was in secret. 
Externally, to the view of the world, she was perfectly calm and 
cheerful, fulfilling all her little duties with the composure of one 
who has never known ’what tragedy means. A hundred eager 
eyes had been upon her, but no one had been able to tell how 
Chatty “ bore it.” She said nothing to anybody. It was thought 
that she held her head a little higher than usual and was less dis- 
posed for society: but then she had never loved society. She 
arranged her flowers, slie took her walks, she carried beef tea and 
port W'ine to the sick people. She even sat down daily at the usual 
hour and took out her muslin work, a heiglit of self-command to 
which it was indeed difficult to reach. But what woman could 
do Chatty would do, and she had accomplished even that. There 
are many in the world who must act and cannot wait, but there 
are also some who, recognizing action to be impossible, can sit 
still with the whole passive force of their being, until that passive- 
ness becomes almost sublime. Chatty was of this kind. Presum- 
ably she did not torment herself hour by hour and day by day, as 
her mother did, by continual re-arguments of the whole question: 
but if she did she kept the process altogether to herself 
There had been one interview, indeed, which had tried her 
very much, and that had taken place a day or two after her ar- 


360 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


rival at the Warren, when she had met Lizzie Hampson on the 
road Lizzie Hampson had shrunk from the young lady in 
whose life she had interfered with siicli extraordinary effect, but 
ChaL‘y had insisted on speaking to her, and had called her almost 
imperiously. Why do you run away ? Do you think I am 
angry with you ? ” she cried. 

“ Oh, Miss Chatty! ” The girl liad no breath or courage to say 
more. 

“ You did right I believe,” Chatty said. “ It would have been 
better if you had come and told me quietly at home, before — any- 
thing had happened. But 1 do not blame you. I think you did 
right. ” 

“ I never knew till the last minute that it would hurt you so!” 
Lizzie cried. “I knew it might be bad for the gentleman, and 
that he could be tried and put in prison; but she would never, 
never, have done that. She wanted him to be free. It was only 
when I knew. Miss Chatty, what it would do to you — and then it 
was too late. I went to Highcombe, but you had gone from there; 
and then when I got to London — ” 

A flush came over Chatty’s face, as all the extraordinary scene 
came back to her. “ It seems strange that it should be you who 
were mixed up with it all,” she said. “ Things happen very 
strangely, I think, in life; one can never* tell. If you have no 
objection, I should like you to tell me something of — I saw her 
— do you remember ? here, on this very road, and you told me — 
ah! that to put such people in penitentiaries would not do; that 
they wanted to enjoy themselves. Do you remember ? It seemed 
very strange to me. And to think that” — This moved Chatty 
more than all the rest had done. Her soft face gre\v crimson, 
her eyes filled w ith tears. 

“To think that she — Oh, Miss Chatty, I feel as if I ought to 
go down on my knees and ask you to forgive me for ever having 
anything to do with her.” 

“ That was no fault of yours,” said Chatty very softly. “ It can 
have been nobody's fault. It is just because — it has happened so: 
w’hich makes it harder and harder. None of us meant any harm 
— except perhaps ” — 

“ Miss Chatty, she did not mean any harm to you. She meant 
no harm to any one. She W’as never brought up to care for what 
w^as gbod. She was brought up just to please her fancy. Oh, the 
like pf you can’t understand, if you w'ere to be told ever so, nor 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


361 


should I if I hadn’t seen it. Tliey make a sort of principle of 
that, just to please their fancy. We’re taught liere that to please 
ourselves is mostly wrong: but not there. It’s their religion in a 
kind of a way, out in those wild places, just to do whatever they 
like; and then when you come to grief, if you are plucky and take 
it cheerful — The very words sound dreadful here where everything 
is so different,” Lizzie said, with a shudder, looking round her, as 
if there might be ears in the trees. 

Chatty did not ask any further questions. She w’alked along 
very gravely, with her head bent. “ It makes one’s heart ache,” 
she said. There was an ease in speaking to this girl who had 
played so strange a part in her life, who knew her trouble as no 
one else did. “ It makes one’s heart ache,” she repeated. She 
was not thinking of herself. “ And where is she now ? Do you 
hear of her ? Do you know what has become of her ? ” 

" Only one thing can become of her,” said Lizzie. “ She’ll fall 
lower and lowor. Oh, you don’t think a poor creature can fall any 
lower than that, I know,” for Chatty had looked at her with won- 
der, shaking her head ; “ but lower and lower in her dreadful way. 
One day there,” said Lizzie philosophically, but sadly, pointing to 
the high wall of the Elms, “ with her fine dresses and her horses 
and carriages, and the next in dirt and misery. And then she’ll 
die, perhaps in the hospital. Oh, she’ll not be long in anybody’s 
way. They die soon, and then they are done with, and every- 
body is glad of it ’’—the girl cried, with a burst of sudden tears. 

Chatty stopped suddenly upon the road. They were opposite to 
the gate from which so often the woman they were discussing had 
driven forth in her short-lived finery; the stillness as of death 
had fallen on the uninhabited house, and all was tranquil on the 
country road, stretching on one side across the tranquil fields, on 
the other towards the clustering houses of the village and the low 
spire which pointed to heaven. “ Lizzie,” she said, “ if it is never 
put right, — and perhaps it will never be put right, for who can 
tell ?— if you will come with me, who know so much about it, we 
will go and be missionaries to these poor girls. I will tell them 
my story, and how I am married but have no husband, and how 
three lives are all ruined, — all ruined forever. And we will tell 
them that love is not like that, — that it is faithful and true; and 
that women should never be like that— that women should be— 
Oh, I do not believe it, I do not believe it! Of her own free will 


362 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


no woman could ever be like that! ” Chatty cried, like Desde- 
mona, suddenly clenching her soft hands in a passion of indigna- 
tion and pity. “ We will go and tell them, Lizzie! ” 

‘‘Oh, Miss Chatty! They know it all, every word,” Lizzie 
cried. 


XLIX. 




' Two little girls are as unlike as anything can be to one little 
boy. This gave Warrender a sort of angry satisfaction in the 
ridiculous incident which had happened in his life. For it was a 
ridiculous incident. When a man is hardened to it, when he has 
had several children and is habituated to paternal honors, such 
an event may be amusing and interesting. But scarcely a year 
after his marriage, when he was not quite four and twenty, to be 
the father of twins! He felt sometimes as if it must be the result 
of a conspiracy to make him ridiculous. The neighboring poten- 
tates, when he met them, laughed as they congratulated him, 
“If you are going to continue like this, you will be a patriarch 
before you know where you are,” one of them said. It was a 
joke to the entire country round about. Twins! He felt scarcely 
any of the stirrings of tenderness in his heart which are supposed 
to move a young father, when he looked at the two little yawn- 
ing, gaping morsels of humanity. If there had been but one, 
perhaps! — but twoT He was the laughing-stock of the neighbor- 
hood, he felt. The sight of his w’ife, pale and smiling, touched 
his heart, indeed. But even that sight was not W’ithout its pangs. 
For alas, she knew all about this position which was so novel to 
him. She understood the babies and their wants, as it was natural 
a mother who was already experienced in motherhood should. 
And finally she was so far carried away by the privileges and the 
expansion of the moment as to ask him — him ! the last authority 
to be consulted on such a subject — whether Geoff was delighted 
to hear of his little sisters. Geoff’s little sisters! The thought of 
that boy having anything to do, any relationship to claim, with 
his children clouded Warrender’s face. He turned it away, and 
Lady Markland, in the sweet enthusiasm of the moment, fortu- 
nately did not perceive the change. She thought, in her teiider 
folly, that this would make everything right; that Geoff, as the 
brother of his little girls, would he something nearer to Theo, 
claiming a more favorable consideration. She preserved this hope 
for some time, notwithstanding a great many signs to the coa . 


364 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


trary. E^en Tbco’s dark face, when he found Geoff one day fn 
her room, looking with great interest at the children, did not 
alarm the mother, who was determined not to pai-t with her illu- 
sion. “ Do you think it right to have a boy of G<?off's age here in 
your room ? ” he said. ‘‘ Oh, Theo. my own hoy, — wdiat harm 
can it do ?” she had said, — so foolishly 1 forgetting that Geoff’s 
crime in the eyes of his young step-father w’as exactly this, that 
he was her own hoy. 

Thus the circumstance which every oue hoped was to make the 
most favorable change in the position only intensihed its difficul- 
ties. Geoff naturally W'as more thrown into the society of his 
stepfather during his mother’s seclusion, and Geoff was very full 
of the new event and new relationships, and was no wiser than 
|his mother. When they lunched together the boy was so far for- 


getful of former experiences as to ply Theo with questions, as he 
had not done since the days when the young man was his tutor, 
and everything was on so different a footing, Geoff’s excitement 
made him forget all the prudence he had acquired Ilis “ I say, 
‘Warrender,’ overand over repeated drove Theo to heights of exas- 


peration indescribable. Everything about Geoff w'as offensive to 
his stepfather: his ugly little face, the nervous grimaces which he 
still made, the familiarly of his address, but above all the ques- 
tions wliich it was impossible to silence. Lady Markland 


averted them more or less when she was present, and Geoff had 


learnt prudence to some extent: but in his excitement he remem- 
bered these precautions no more. 

“ I say, Warrender! shall you take mamma away? Nurse says 
she must go away for a change. I think Markland is always the 
nicest place going, don't you ? ’’ 

“ No : I prefer the Warren, as you know.” 

“ Oh! ” Geoff could scarcely keep out of his voice the wonder- 
ing contempt with which he received this suggestion : but here 
his natural insight prevailed, and a sort of sympathetic genius 
which the little fellow possessed. “ To be sure, I like the War- 
ren very much indeed,” he said. “ I suppose 'what makes me 
like Markland best is being born here.” 

“ And I was born there,” Theo said. 

1 es, I know. I wonder which the babies wdll like best. 
They are born here, like me: I hope they will lilce Markland. 
It will be fun seeing them run about, both the same^ size and 
BO like. They say twins are always so like. Shall we have to 


A VOUNTRY GENTLEMAN. ' 365 

tie a red ribbon round one and a blue ribbon round the other, to 
know which is which ? ” . 

To this question the father of the babies vouchsafed no reply. 

“ Xurse says they are not a bit like me,” Geoff continued, in a 
tone of regret. 

“ Like you! Why should they be like you ? ” said Warrender, 
With a flush of indignation, 

‘•But why not, Warrender? Brothers and sisters are alike 
often. You and Chatty are a little alike. When I am at Oxford, 
and they come to see me, I shall like fellows to say, Oh, I saw 
your sisters, ^tarklaml.” 

• “ Your sisters !” Theo could scarcely contain lus disgust, all 
the more that he saw the old butler keeping an eye upon him 
with a sort of severity. The servants in the house, Thoo thought, 
all took part with Geoff, and looked to him as their future master. 
He continued hastily: “I can only hope they will prefer the War- 
ren, as I do: for that will be their home.” 

“ Oh! ” cried Geoff again, opening round eyes. “But if it is n’t 
our home, how can it be theirs ? They don’t want a home all to 
themselves.” 

“I think they do,” said Theo shortly. 

The boy gave him a furtive glance, and thought it wise to change 
the subject. “But Mrs Warrender is there now. Oh, I say! 
Bhe-will be granny to the babies. I should like to call her granny, - 
too. Will she let me, do you think, Warrender? She is always 
BO kind to me.” 

“ I should advise you not to try.” 

“Why, Warrender? Would she be angry? She is always 
very kind. I went to see her once, as soon as she came home, 
and she was awfully kind, and understood what I wanted.” Geoff 
paused here, suddenly catching himself up, and remembering — 
with a forlorn sense that he had gone a long way beyond them in 
his little life — the experiences, which were sufflciently painful, of 
that day. 

“ It requires a very wise person to do that,” said Warrender, 
with an angry smile. 

“ Yes, to understand you quite right even when you don’t say 
anything. I say, Warrender ! if mamma has to go away foi a 
change, where shall we go ?” 

“ We ! ” said Warrender significantly. 

; * Are you also in want of a change ? ” . . 


B66 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


The bay looked up at him suddenly, with a hasty flush. The 
tears came to his brave little eyes. He was overpowered by the 
sudden suggestion, and could iiot find a word to say. 

“ Markland is the best change for you after Eton,” said Theo. 
“You don’t want to travel with a nursery, 1 suppose.” 

Geoff felt something rise in his throat. Why, it was his owm 
nursery, he wanted to say. It was his own family. Where 
should he go but where they went ? But tlie words w’ere stopped 
on liis lips, and his magnanimous little heart swelled high. Oh, 
if he could but fly to his mother! — but to her he had learnt never 
now to fly. 

“ Wherever w'e may go,” said Warrender coldlj’’, “ I think you 
had much better spend your holidays here; ” and he got up from 
the table, leaving Geoff in a tumult of feelings which words can 
scarcely describe. He had suffered a great deal <luring tlie past 
year, and. had said little. A sort of preternatural consciousness 
that he must keep his own secret, that he must betray notliing to 
his mother, had come upon him. He sat now silent, his little 
face twitching and working, a sudden new, unlooked-for horror 
stealing over him : that he was to be separated from his mother; 
that he was to be left behind while they went away. It did not 
seem possible, and yet, with all the rapidity of a child’s imagina- 
tion, Geoff’s mind flashed over what might happen,— he to be left 
alone here, while they went away. He saw his mother go smil- 
ing into the carriage, thinking of the babies, in their little white 
hoods, little dolls. Oh, no, dear little helpless creatures, to whom 
the boy’s heart went out; his babies as well as his mother’s. But 
of course she would think of them. She must think of them. 
And Geoff would be left behind, with no one, nobody to speak to, 
the great rooms all empty, only the servants about. He remem- 
bered wliat it had been when his mother was married: then he 
had the hope that she would come back to him, that all would be 
well; but now he knew that never, never, as of old, could he have 
her back. Geoff did not budge from the table for some time 
after, but sat with his elbows on it and his head in his hands, in 
the attitude which he had so often been scolded for. with nobody 
to scold liim or tak^ any notice. He thought to himself that he 
might put his elbows on the table as much as he liked, and no- 
body would care. It was only the return of tlie servants to clear 
the table, and the old butler's question, “ What’s the matter, 
Master Geoff ?” that roused him. The butler’s tone was far too 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


367 


sympathetic. He was an old servant, and the only one in the 
house who did not call poor little Geoff My lord. But the boy 
was not going to accept sympathy. He sprang up from the table, 
with a ‘‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m going out for a ride,” and 
hurried towards the stables, Avhich were now his resource more 
and more. 

f This knowledge rankled in Geoff's heart through all the time 
of his mother’s convalescence. He was very brave, very magnan- 
imous, Muthout knowing that he was either. That he would not 
vex his mother was the determination of his soul. She was very 
sweet, sweeter than ever, but pale, and her hands so thin that you 
could see the light through them. Though he anticipated with a 
dull anguish the time when she should go away, when Warren- 
der would take her away, leaving him behind, Geoff resolved that 
he would say nothing about it, that he would not make her un- 
happy. He would bear it; one could bear anything when one 
tried, even spending the holidays by one's self. But his heart 
sank at the thought. Supposing she were to stay a month away, 
— that was four weeks, it was thirty days, — and he alone, all alone 
in Markland: and when she came back it would be time for him 
to go to school. Sometimes he felt as if he must cry out when he 
thought of it; but he would not say a word, he would not com- 
plain; he would bear it rather than vex mamma. When she 
came down-stairs she was still very pale. She began to walk 
about a little, but only with Warrender’s ai-m. She drove out, 
but the babies had to be with her in the carriage; there was no 
room for Geoff. He twisted his poor little face out of shape al- 
together in the effort to get rid of the scalding tears, but he would 
not betray the state of his mind; nothing, he vowed to himself, 
should make him worry mamma. 

One day he rode over to the Warren, pondering upon what 
Theo had said: that the Warren must be liked best by the babies, 
because it was their home. Would it ever really be their home ? 
Would Warrender be so hard as that, to take away mamma and 
the babies for good, and leave a fellow all alone in Markland, be- 
cause it was Geoff’s, and not his own ? Geoff’s little gray face 
was as serious as that of a man of eighty, and almost as full of 
w; inkles. He thought and thought v.diat he could do to please 
Warrender. Though his heart rose against this interloper, this 
destroyer of his home, Geoff was wise, and knew that to keep 
his mother he must please her husband. What could he do ? 


368 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Not like him,— that was impossible. Riding along, now slowly, 
now quickly, rather at the pony’s will than at his own, Geoff, wu'th 
loose reins in his hands and a slouch in his shoulders which was 
the despair of Black, pondered the subject till his little mind was 
all in confusion. What could he do to please Warrender ? He 
would be good to the babies, by nature, and because he liked the 
two funny little things, but that would not matter. lie would do 
almost anything Warrender chose to tell him, but that would n’t 
please him. What was there, then, that would do ? He did not 
know what he could do. lie rode very carelessly, almost as much 
at the mercy of the pony as on the occasion when Theo picked 
him from under the wheels of the high phaeton; but either the 
pony was more wise, or Geoff stronger, for there was no question 
now being thrown. When he came in sight of the little gate, he 
saw some one standing there, at sight of whom he quickened his 
pace. He knew the general asp ct of the man’s figure though he 
could not see his face, and a welcome new e.xcitement made the 
heart jump up again in Geoff ‘ s breast. He hurried along in a 
sudden cloud of dust, and threw himself off the pony like a little 
acrobat. “ Mr. Cavendish! ” cried Geoff, “ have you come back ?’ 
with a glow of pleasure which drove all his troubles away. 

It was Dick very brown, very thin, a little wild in his aspect 
and dress. ‘‘Hallo, Geoff!” he replied. “Yes, I have come 
back. Did n’t they expect me to come back } ’’ 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I think they w’ondered.*^ 

“ That’s how it is in this world,” said the stranger: nobody 
trusts you; as soon as you are out of sight — oh, I don’t say you’re 
out of mind, but nobody trusts you. They think that perhaps, 
after all, you were a villain all the time.” 

To this, naturally. Geoff had no reply to make; he said, “Are 
you going in by that door, Mr. Cavendish ? ” Upon which Dick 
burst into a loud laugh, which Geoff knew meant anything but 
laughing. 

“What do you think, Geoff ? ” he cried. “My wife’s inside, 
and they’ve locked me out here. That’s a joke, is n’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t think It's any joke. And Chatty wants you so. Come 
round to the other door.” 

“ Are you sure of that ? ” said Dick. “ Here’s that fellow been 
talking, — that Thynne fellow, — telling me” — Then he paused and 
looked at the boy with another laugh. “You’re a queer confi- 
dant for a poor vagabond, little Geoff.” 


A COUNTRY GENTLE3TAN 


869 


“Is it because I’m little ?” cried Geoff. “But thougli I am 
little there are a heap of things 1 know. I know they are all 
against you except Chatty. Come along and see Chatty. I want 
to go to her this moment and tell her" — 

“I thought,” said Cavendish, “ I’d wait for her here. I don’t 
want to make a mummy of that fellow, my brother-in-law, don’t 
you know, the first moment. Tell Chatty — tell my wife, Geoff, 
that I airi waiting for her here.” 

Geoff did not wait for another word, but clambered on to his 
pony again and was off like the wind, round by the village to the 
other gate. Meantime Dick stood and leaned upon the wooden 
paling. Ills face was sharp and thin with illness, with eagerness 
and suspense, his complexion browned and paled out of its 
healthful English tints. But this was not because he was weak 
any longer, or in diminished health. He was worn by incessant 
travelling, by anxiety and the tluctuation of hope and fear; yet 
that great tension had strung his nerves and strengthened his 
vitality, though it had worn off every superfluous particle of 
flesh. A keen anxiety mingled with indignation was in his eyes 
as he looked across the gate which the clergyman had fastened 
against him,— indignation, yet also a smile. From the moment 
when Geoff’s little voice had broken upon his angry reverie, 
Dick had begun to recover himself. “ Chatty wants you so.” It 
was only a child that spoke. But a child does not flatter or de- 
ceive, and this was true. What Eustace Thynne thought, what 
anybody thought, was of little consequence. Chatty!— the simple 
name brought a softening glow to Dick’s eye. Would she come 
and open to him ? Would she reverse the judgment of the family 
by her own act, or must it be he who should emancipate Chatty ? 
He waited with something of his old gayety rising in his mind. 
The position was ludicrous. They had shut him out, but it could 
not be for long. 

Geoff galloped his pony to the gate, and up the little avenue, 
which was still very shady and green, though so much of the 
wood had been cut. He threw himself off his pony and flung the 
reins to the gardener’s boy, who stood gazing open-mouthed at 
the little lord’s headlong race. The doors were not open, as 
usual but Geoff knew that the drawing-room windows were sel- 
dom fastened in the summer weather. He darted along round the 
corner of the house, and fell against one of the windows, pushing 
it open. In the drawing-room there seemed a number of people 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


370 

assembled, whom he saw vaguely without paying any attention, 
—Mr. and Mrs. Thyiine, and Warrender, in a group, talking with 
their heads together; Mrs. Warrender standing between them 
and the tranquil figure of Chatty, who sat at work at the other 
end of the room, taking no part in the consultation of the others, 
paying no heed to them. Chatty had an almost ostentation of 
disregard, of separation from the others in her isolated place and 
the work with which she was busy. She looked up with a little 
alarm, when Geoff came stumbling through the window: but she 
did not look as if she expected any one, as if she had heard who 
was so near at hand. The boy was covered with dust and hot 
with haste, his forehead bathed in perspiration. He called out 
to her almost before he Avas in the room: “ Chatty! Mr. Caven- 
dish is outside at the little gate. They will not let him come in. 
He sent me to tell you ” — 

Chatty started to her feet, and the group in the end of the 
room scattered and hastened towards the new-comer. Theo 
seized his step-son by the collar, half choking the boy. “You 
confounded imp! ” he cried, “ what business is that of yours ? ” 

“ Geoff, where, where ? ” Chatty rushed to the child and 
caught his hand. He struggled in Theo’s grasp, in a desperate 
nervous anguish, fearing he could not tell what, —that he would 
be strangled, that Chatty would be put in some sort of prison. 
The strangling was in progress now; he called out in haste that 
he might get it out before his breath was gone: — 

“O, run. Chatty! The little gate in the road— the wooden 
gate.” She seemed to flash past his eyes,— his eyes which were 
turning in his head, with the pressure and the shaking of War- 
render’s hand. Then the child felt himself suddenly pitched for- 
ward, and fell, stunned for the moment, and thinking, before 
consciousness failed him, that all was aver, and that he Avas kill- 
ed indeed; yet scarcely sorry, for Chatty had his message and he 
had fulfilled his commission before he died. 

Chatty flew along the shady paths, a line of Avhiteness fluttering 
through sunshine and shadoAV. She called out her lover’s name 
as she approached the gate. She had neither fear nor doubt in 
her mind. She did not know what news he was going to bring 
her, what conclusion was to be put to the story. She called to 
him as soon as he was within hearing, asking no questions, taking 
no precautions. “ Dick, Dick! ” Behind her, but at some dis- 
tftnoe, Minnie too fluttered along, inspired by virtuous indigna- 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


871 


tion, which is only less swift than love and happiness. The 
gentlemen remained behind, even Eustace perceiving that the 
matter had now passed beyond their hands. This is one of the 
points in which men have the advantage over women. They have 
a practical sense of the point at which opposition becomes im- 
possible. And Warrender had the additional sense that he had 
done that in his fury which at his leisure it would be diflScult to 
account for. Mrs. Warrender, who had not been informed of 
the crisis, nor known upon what matter her children were con- 
sulting, was too much horrified by what had happened to Geoff to 
think even of Chatty. She raised the boy up and put him on a 
sofa, and bathed his forehead, her own heart aching and ble^eding, 
while Warrender stood dumbly by, looking at his handiwork, his 
passion still hot in him, and a half frenzy of dislike and repug- 
nance in his mind. 


L. 


“Dick!” Curiously enough Dick had not thought till then 
that even a high gate may be vaulted by a man whose heart has 
leaped it before him, and who is in perfect training, and knows 
no fear. He had been more discouraged by Eustace Thynne than 
any authority on the part of tliat poor creature at all warranted, 
and his heart had failed him still more when he thought that 
perhaps Chatty might have been talked over, and might stand by 
him no longer. She was his wife, but what if her heait had given 
him up! But when a man hears the voice he loves best in the 
world calling him, everything takes a different aspect. “ Dick!” 
Her voice came first faint, so that he scarcely believed it; then 
nearer and nearer, giving life to the silent world. The thin 
brown face of the vagabond, as he had called himself, grew crim- 
son with a flush of happiness and new life. He could not wait 
until she came; his soul flew to meet her in a great revulsion of 
confidence and joy. The gate was high, but he was eager and 
she was coming. He put his sinewy, thin hands upon it, and 
was over in a moment. And there she came, flying, fluttering, 
her light dress making a line of whiteness under the trees. She 
did not stop to ask a question, but ran straight to him, into his 
arms. “Dick, Dick!” and “ Chatty, my darling, at last!” — 
that was all they said. 

Minnie did not run so fast. She had not the same inducement; 
for opposition, though very itearly as swift, has not quite the 
same impetus as love. She only came up to them when these 
first greetings were over, ana when, to the consciousness of both, 
life had taken up its threads again exactly where they had broken 
off. Chatty did not ask any questions, — his presence was answer 
enough to all questions; but indeed she did not think of any. 
Everything else went out or her mind except that he was there. 

“Mr. Cavendish!” Minnie came up breathless, putting her 
hand to her side. “ Oh, Chatty, jmu are shameless! Do you 
know what you are doing ? It was his duty — to satisfy us first. 
Mr. Cavendish, if she is lost to — ail sense ol snamo ” — 


A COUNTliY GENTLEMAN. 373 

Panting slie hatl got up to them, and was pulling Chatty away 
from him by her arm. 

“ There is no shame in the matter,” he said. “ But, Chatty, 
your sister is right, and I must explain evei7thing to your family 
at once. There is no time to lose, for the train leaves at six, and 
I want to take you away directly. If you can be ready ” — 

“ Yes, Dick, E can be ready. I am ready whenever you please.’’ 

He pressed her arm, which she had placed within his, with a 
look that said everything there w\as to say. But Minnie replied 
with a scream: “Take her away! What right have you to take 
her aw'ay ? Eustace will never consent, and my mother— oh, even 
my mother will not hear of that. If you were a hundred times 
divorced, — which is a shajiie to think of, — you can’t take heraw'ay 
like that; you wdll have to be married again.” 

“ I am sorry to push past you, Mrs. Thynne. It is your hus- 
band’s fault, who stopped my entrance in the natural w ay. But 
we have no time to lose.” lie looked back, waving his hand to 
Minnie, w’hose w’rath took away the little breath she had left. 
“I am not a divorced man,” he said. Mrs. Eustace looked after 
them with feelings indescribable. They w'cnt hurrying along, the 
two figures melting into one, swift, straight, carried as by a wind 
of triumph. What did he mean ? It was horrible to Minnie that 
she could not go so fast, that she had to wait and take breath. 
With a pang of angry disappointment, she felt at once that they 
were on tlie winning side, that they must inevitably reach the 
Warren before she could, and that thus she would not hear w’hat 
Dick had to say. It may here be added that Minnie had, like 
Chatty, the most perfect confidence that all was right. She no 
more believed that Dick would have come liere had the end of 
liis mission been unsatisfactory than she believed that night was 
day. She w'ould not have owned this for the world, and she wms 
vexed and mortified by the conviction, but yet at the bottom of 
lier heart, being not at all so bad as she Avished to believe she 
Avas, she felt a sense of consolation and relief, which made it 
at once easier and more tantalizing to have to wniit. 

Foolish Chatty held Dick’s arm fast, and kept up a murmur of 
happiness. “ Oh, Dick, are you sure it is you? Have you come 
at last ? Are you wndi now’ ? And I that could not go to you, 
that did not know, that had no one to ask! Oh, Dick, didn’t you 
want me when you were ill ? Oh, Dick! oh, Dick!” After all, 
his mere name was the most satisfactory thing to say. And as 


374 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 

he hurried her along, almost flying over the woodland path 
Chatty, too, was soon out of breath, and ended in a blissful in- 
capacity to say or do anything except to be carried along with 
him ill his eager progress towards the tribunal which he had to 
face . 

Eustace Thynne opposed his entrance, but quite ineffectually, 
at the drawing-room door. Dick witii his left hand was more than 
a match for the Reverend Eustace. Warrender stood in the mid- 
dle of the room, with his head towards the sofa, over which his 
mother was bending, though his eyes turned to the new'-comers as 
they entered. He made a step towards them as if to stop them, 
but a movement on the sofa drew him back again as by some 
fascination. It w'as Geoff, wdio struggled up with a little pale, 
gray face and a cut on his forehead, like a little ghost. His sharp 
voice piped forth all at once in the silence: “ I told her, Mr. Cav- 
endish. I gave her your message. Oh, I’m all right, I’m all right. 
But I told Chatty. It don’t matter about me.” 

•‘Mr. Cavendish!” cried Mrs. Warrender, turning from the 
child. She w^as trembling with the excitement of these hurrying 
events, though the sick terror she had been seized with in respect 
to Geoff was passing away. “ Mr. Cavendish, my son is right in 
this, — that before you saw Chatty we should have had an account 
of you, he and I.” 

“I should have said so, too, in other circumstances,” said Dick, 
holding Chatty’s arm closely within his own. “If my presence 
or my touch could harm her, even w^ith the most formal fool ” — 
he flashed a look at Eustace, angrily, which glowed over the pale 
parson like a passing lamp, but left him quite unconscious. “ As 
it is, you have a right to the fullest explanation, but not to keep 
my wife from me for a moment.” • 

“She is not your wife,” cried Warrender. “Leave him, 
Chatty. Even in the best of circumstances she cannot be your 
wife.” 

“ Chatty, do not move. I have as full right to hold her here as 
you have your wife, or any married man. Mrs. Warrender, I 
don’t w'ant to get angry. I w ill tell you my story at once. On 
our wedding-day, wiieu that terrible interruption was, the poor 
creature wiioni I tlien thought, wiiom I then believed, to have 
been ” — 

“ You mean Mrs. Cavendish, your lawful wife.” 

“Poor girl do not call her by that name; she never bore it 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 375 

She did not mean to do any harm. There was no sancity to her 
in that or any other tie.” 

Chatty pressed his arm more closely in sympathy. Her clasp 
did not relax even at the recollection thus brought before her. 

“ She meant no harm from her point of view. She scarcely 
meant to deceive me. Mrs. Warreiider, it was a fiction all 
through. There has been no need of any divorce. She was al- 
ready married when— she made believe to marry me. The delu- 
sion was mine alone. I hunted the man over half the continent* 

I did not dare to tell you whal; I was doing, lest it should prove to 
be a false hope. But at last I found him, and I have all the evi- 
dence. I have never had any wife but Chatty. She forgives me 
what was done in folly so long ago, before I ever saw her. There 
was no marriage, AVhat was done was a mere idle foim, in defer- 
ence to my prejudices,” he said, with a short laugh of excitement. 
“I was a fool it appears, all through; but it was not as a wise 
man that Chatty married me,” he said, turning to her. “Our 
marriage is as true as ever marriage was. I have no wife but 
Chatty. Mrs. Warrender, I have all the evidence. Don’t you be- 
lieve me ? Surely you must believe me! ” Dick cried. 

His voice was interrupted by a shrill little outburst from the 
sofa behind. “ Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ” cried little Geoff before Dick 
had ended. “Chatty, it was me that brought the first news!^ 
Chatty, are you happy now ? ” 

Mrs. Warrender, in the act of going forward to the pair who 
stood before her awaiting her judgment, turned with a thrill of 
anxious terror. “Oh, hush, hush!” she cried, putting herself 
before the })oy. 

Theo. too, had turned round with a suppressed but passionate 
exclamation, clenching his hands. “ Mother I can think of noth- 
ing till that imp is out of the way.” 

“ He shall go, Thev.. I will see to that; but speak to them,— 
speak to them ’’’cried the mother, anxiously, bending over the 
sofa, with an indescribable tumult in her heart. She had to leave 
lier own child’s fate at its crisis to look after and protect this 
child who was none of hers, who was the stumbling-block in her 
son’s way. And yet her heart condemned her son, and took part 
with theVittle intruder. Thus Chatty for the moment was left to 
stand alone before her husband’s judge, but was not aware of it, 
thought nothing of it, in her confidence and joy. Warrender 
stood looking darkly on till his mother had taken his step-son out 


S76 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


of the room. The pause, perhaps, was useful in calming the ex- 
citement of all. When the door closed Theo turned round, mas- 
tering himself with an effort. Geoff had diverted the rush of 
hasty temper whicli was natural to him. He looked upon the 
new-comer less severely. 

‘‘We can have no interest,’’ he said, “hut that your story 
should be true. But it cannot rest on you word, Cavendisli. 
You have been deceived once; you may be deceived again. My 
mother is no judge of points of law, and she is favorable, too 
favorable, to you. Y’^ou had better come with us into another 
room, and let us see w’hat proofs you have of vvhat you say.” 

“ That is quite just,” said Dick. “ I’d like you to kiss that 
little beggar for me, Chatty ; he knows what it is to stand by a 
man in trouble: It is all right, Warrender. Of course it is the 
interest of all of us that there should be no mistake. Send for 
Wilberforce, Avho will be impartial; and if you could have Long- 
staffe, too ” — 

Minnie came in, out of breath, at this stage of affairs; “ What 
does he say, Eustace, — oh, what does he say ? Are you sure it is 
true ? What has he got to say ? And what does he mean about 
Mr. Longstaffe and Mr. Wilberforce ? Aren’t you good enough 
for him ? Can’t you judge without Wilberforce ? Wilberforce,” 
^she cried, with pro'essioual contempt for another clergyman, “is 
nothing so wonderful; and he is his friend and will he sure to be 
on his side. Why can’t Eustace do ? 

Mrs. Warrender, w'ith an au.xious face, had now come back 
again alone. Siie went up to Dick, holding out both her hands. 
“ God bless you,” she said. ‘‘ I believe you, dear Dick, every 
word you say. But everything must be made as clear as daylight, 
both for her sake and your own.” 

“I know it, dear mother,” he replied. “ I am quite read}". I 
should be the first to ask for a full examination. Take care of 
my Chatty while I show my papers. I waul to take my wife away 
with me. I cannot be parted from her again.” 

“ Oh, Dick! oh, Dic;x! ” The mother, like the daughter, could 
find no other words to say. 

Little Geoff found himself .alone in Mrs. W.arrender’s room. 
She had taken him there with much kindness and many tender 
word.«, and made a littl > nest for him upon the sof.a. “ Lie down 
and try to go to sleep,” she said, stooping to kiss him, a caress 
which half pleased, half irritated, Geoff. But he obeyed, for his 


A COUNTllY GENTLEMAN. 


877 


head was still aching and dazed with the suddenness and strange- 
ness of all that had passed. To lie down and try to sleep was not 
so hard for him as for most children of his age, and for the first 
moment no movement of revolt was in him. He lay down in the 
silence, not unwilling to rest his head on a soft pillow. But the 
fire of excitement was in Geoff's veins, and a restlessness of 
energy and activity wliich after a minute or two forbade all pos- 
sibility of rest. Something had happened to him which had never 
happened before. He had not been quite clear what it tvas at 
first; wiiether it was the wonder of Dick’s return or of his own 
part in it, — the fact that he had been the messenger and had dis- 
charged his trust. But presently it all came to liim, as he lay 
quietly with his aching head pressed against the cool pillow. 
Geoff had encountered many new experiences in the last two 
years of his life, but he liad not known at anytime what personal 
violence was. Everybody round him had made much of him; his 
delicate health had Jilways been in the thoughts of those who 
were about him; and his rank, to which he was so indifferent, of 
which he was scarcely conscious, had made him important. Till 
Theo had appeared upon the scene, Geoff had been the central 
figure in his own little world. Since that lime, the boy had suf- 
fered, with a magnanimity which few men could have equalled, a 
gradual deposition from most of the things he prized. He was 
no longer first; he had partially lost the mother who for so long 
had been his companion and playfellow as well as the chief object 
in liis existence. Many humiliations had come to the keen feel- 
ings and sensitive heart of the little dethroned boy. Many a com- 
plaint and reproach had been on his lips, though none had got 
utterance. But now a deeper indignity still had befallen him. 
As Geoff lay in the room to which he liad been banished to be 
out of Warrender’s sight, all this swept across his little soul like 
a tempest. Ho remembered the suffocating sensation in his 
throat, the red mist in his eyes, the feeling that he had but a mo- 
ment left in which to deliver his message; and then the giddy 
w'hirl of movement as he was flung away like a I’ag or a stone, the 
crash in his ears, the sharp blow which brought l)ackhis scattered 
faculties for a moment, only to banish them again in the tempo- 
rary unconsciousness \vhich brought all this tingling and thrilling 
into his ears. How had it all come about ? It was Warrencler who 
had seized him, who had flung him upon the floor, who had — had 
he ? tried to kill him ? had he tried to kill him ? Was that what 


378 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


Warrender meant ? A wild flood of feeling, resentment, terror, 
desire for revenge, swept through Geoff s mind. Warrender, to 
W'hom already he owed so much; Warrender, who had taken his 
mother from him, and his home, and everything he cared for in 
the world, — Warrender now wanted to kill him ! If mamma knew! 
Mamma had not ceased to care for her boy. Even now that the 
babies had come she still loved Geoff — and if she knew! 

The boy jumped up from his couch. He was pale and trem* 
bling, and the cut on his forehead showed doubly from the total 
absence of color in his little gray face; but he got himself a great 
draught of water, and, restored by that and by the rush of rage 
that swelled all his veins, he flew downstairs, past Joseph in the 
hall, who gave an outcry of astonishment, to where the gardener’s 
boy was still holding his pony outside, Geoff, scarcely able to 
stand, what with the shock and what with the emotion, clambered 
up upon the pony, and turned its head liomewards. The pony 
was well pleased to find himself in that way, and obeyed with en- 
thusiasm his little master’s impulse. The small steed and rider 
flew along the road to Markland. Geoff had no cap; he was dusty, 
as if he had been for days on the road ; and as he flew by, the 
cottagers came out to the doors to look, and said to each other 
that the little lord must be mad, that he would have an accident 
like his father. He went on thus, with scarcely a pause till he 
reached the gates of Markland, wrath and pain carrying his mind 
at even a swifter rate than the pony carried his little person, eager 
for sympathy and for revenge. 

Something stayed this headlong race all at once. It was when 
he came within sight of the avenue, which was so bare, which had 
no trees except at distant intervals. There he saw a speck upon 
the way, a slowly moving figure, wdiich he recognized at once. It 
was his mother, coming down, as was her wont to meet — whom ? 
Her husband. Geoff’s hot heart, all blazing with childish rage, 
sank into a shivering calm at the sight of her. In a moment he 
turned from heat to cold, from headlong passion to the chill of 
thought and self-sacrifice. Mamma! She it was now who was 
“ delicate,” as he had been all his life. It might make her ill; 
it would make her miserable. TVhat! she who had been every- 
thing to him, — was he now going to seize upon her as Theo had 
seized him, and shake and hurt her, he, her own boy ? The child 
drew up his unwilling pony with a sudden force which almost 
carried him over its head. No, he could not do that. He would noU 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


379 


He would rather be shaken, strangled, thrown down, anything in 
the world rather than hurt mamma. His little heart swelled with a 
new spring of impassioned emotion. He would bear it for her sake ; 
he would bear anything, he did not mind what, rather than do 
that. He would never, he cried to himself, with a rush of scald- 
ing tears to his eyes, hurt her. He turned the pony’s head round 
with a force of passion which that astonished animal could not 
resist, to give himself, after the wild rush of his flight ho mew'ard, 
a little time to think. And he thought, knitting his little brows, 
twiching his little face, his heart aching, his small body all 
strained with the effort. No! whatever he did, whatever he had 
to bear, he would not hurt mamma. 


LI. 


Warrencler had a long conference with Dick Cavendish in the old 
library at the Warren. Mr. Wilberforce, who had been sent for, 
came at once, full of curiosity and excitement; and though Mr. 
Longstaffe could not be had, the experience of the two clergymen, 
who\new all about marriage registers and the proofs tha were 
necessary, was of use in this curious family crisis. It was all 
very important both to Chatty and to the family in general, and 
Theo did his utmost to keep his attention to it: but his thoughts 
were elsewhere. He was glad to be released, when all was done 
that could be done by the little family commission. The result 
was a kind of compromise. No one had any moral doubt that 
Dick was right, but some higher sanction seemed to be necessary 
before he could be allowed to take Chatty away. Th-. ladies had 
to be called in to soothe and subdue his impetuosity, to get him 
to consent to delay. Warrender scarcely waited to se^'. how it was 
settled. The impatience within him was not to be controlled. 
His heart was at Markland, hot with anger and anxiety, while he 
w'as forced to remain here and talk of other things. 3.es, to be 
sure, Chatty’s good name, her happiness,— if she considered her 
happiness to be involved in that, — were important. It was im- 
portant for Cavendish, too, if any one cared what Wiis Important 
for Cavendish: but good heavens, not so important— could any 
one suppose so for a moment ?— as what had happened, wnat 
might be happening, elsewhere. Old Joseph had stopped him .“is 
he went through the hall to tell him that the little loia had ritji 
and got on his pony, and was gone home. He was gone home. It 
was a relief for one thing, for Theo had felt that it wotiia be impos- 
sible for him to carry that little demon back with him in the clog- 
cart, as it would have been his duty to do. But in anOuhor — how 
could he tell what might be happening while he was kei)ttuere, 
amid maddening delays and hesitations, looking over Dick s-tiven- 
dish’s papers ? What could Dick Cavendish’s papers matter ? A 
few days sooner or later, what could it matter to Dick Cavendish / 
Whereas to himself— That boy might be lying senseless on the 


A COUNTIiY GENTLEMAN, 


381 


road, for anything he knew; or, what was worse, he m:ght have 
got home and told his story. And the sting was that he had a 
story to tell. 

'Warrender knew that he had done what ought not to have 
done. He had treated the child with a violence which he knew 
to be unmanly. He had thn)wn him down, and stunned, and 
might luwe killed him. He did not deny to himself what he had 
done. He would not deny it to her,— and he fully expected that 
she would meet him with upbraidings, with anger. With anger 1 
when it was he who was the injured person,— he, her husband, 
wliose privacy was constantly disturbed and alibis rights invaded 
by her son. He turned this over and over in his mind, adding to 
the accumulation of his wrongs, till they mounted to a height 
which was beyond bearing. The fire blazed higher and liigber as he 
kept on throwing in fuel to the flames. It must come to some de- 
cision, he said to himself. It was contrary not only to his liappi- 
ness, but to his dignity, his just position, to let it go on, to be 
tormented perpetually by this little Mordecai at the gate, this 
child who was made of more importance than he was, who had to 
be thought of, and have his wishes consulted, and the supposed 
necessities of liis delicate h alth made so much of. Geoff's gen- 
erosities, the constant sacrifices of which he was conscioufe, were 
lost upon his step-father. He knew nothing of the lestraint the 
child put on himself, or of the wistful pain with which Lady 
Markland looked on, divining more than she knew. All that was 
a sealed book to Theo. From his side of the question Geoff was 
an offense on every point. Why should he be called upon to ent 
dure that interloper always in sight,— never to feel master^ in his 
own house ? To be sure, Markland was not his house, but Geoff's ; 
but that was only a gi ievance the more, for he had not wished to 
live in Markland, while his own house s^ood ready for his own 
family, with plenty of room for his wife and children. There 
grew upon Warrender's mind a great resolution, or, rather, there 
started up in his thoughts, like the prophet’s gourd, full grown, a 
determination,- that this unendurable condition of affairs should 
e.xist no longer. Why should he be bound to Geoff, in whose 
presence ho felt he was not capable of doing liimself justice, who 
turned him the wrong way invariably, and made him look like a 
hot-tempered fool, which he was not ?— No, he would not endure 
it longer. Frances must be brought to see that for the sake of 
her son her husband was not always to be sacrificed. It should 


882 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


not continue. Tlie litilc girls must not grow up to see their 
father put in the second place, to think him an irritable tyrant. 

4 No, it must not continue, not for a day. 

And there occurr#d to Theo, when he approached the gate of 
Markland, something like the same experience which had befallen 
Geoff. He saw going slowly along the bare avenue two figures, 
clinging closely together, — as he had seen them a hundred times, 
though never without jealousy, when he had no right to interfere. 
For a long time these walks had been intermitted, and he had al- 
most forgotten that one among the many irritations of the past. 
But now^ it all surged back, with an exasperation entirely out of 
proportion to the offense. For the offense was no more than 
this: tliat Lady Markland was walking slowly along, Geoff cling- 
ing with i)oth hands to her arm, clasping it, with his head almost 
on her shoulder, with a sort of proprietorship which made the 
spectator frantic. He stopped the dog-cart and sprang dowm, 
flinging the reins to the groom outside of the gate. The sight 
brought his resolution, his rage, the fierce passion wdthiu him, to 
a climax. Yes, he had been anticipated; that tvas clear. The 
story of all that had passed had been poured into his wife’s ear. 
She w’ould meet him with reproaches, perhaps with tears, point- 
ing to the cut on her son’s forehead. There came into Theo’s 
mind a maddening recollection that he himself had been once cut 
on the forehead for Geoff; but no one, not she^ at least, wmuld 
remember that now'. She would meet him furious, like a tiger 
for her cub; or. w’orse, she w'ould meet him magnanimous, forgiv- 
ing him, telling him that she knew' it must have been an accident, 
wliereas it was no accident. He would make no pretense; he 
would allow that he had done it, he would allow that he had 
meant to do it; he would make no further pretenses, and tolerate 
no pretenses from this day. 

In his anger he was as swift and light as a deer. Their backs 
were turned towards him, and they were too much absorbed in 
their talk to hear his approach. He was close to them, on Lady 
Markland’s other side, before they heard ajiything. The mother 
and so!i looked up simultaneously, and started as if they were but 
one being at the sight of him. She gave a faint cry,— “ Theo! ” 
—and Geoff unclasped her arm and slid from her in a moment, 
which, though it was what he wished, made the fire burn still 
higher in Warrender’s heart. 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 383 

“ So,” he said, with the harsli laugh of excited temper, “ he 
has been telling you his story. I knew he would.” 

“ He has been telling me no story, Theo,” said Lady Mark- 
land. “ Oh, yes; he has been telling me that Mr. Cavendish” — 

“ Confound Mr. Cavendish! I am speaking of your boy. Lady 
Markland. He has been telling you about the cut on his fore- 
head.” 

She looked from the man to the child, growing pale. “ He 
fell,” she said, faltering. “ But he says it does not hurt. 

“The little liar!” cried Theo, in his excitement. “ Why did 
n’t you tell your mother the truth ? ” 

“ Warrender! ” said little Geoff, in a tone which conveyed such 
a warning as Theo would not have taken from any man in the 
excited state of his mind. The child was red with sudden indig- 
nation, but still he held fast to his part. 

“Geoff, run away home!” cried his mother, trembling. 

“ Nurse will bathe it for you— and papa”— she had ventured to 
call her young husband by this name since the birth of the babies 
— “ will give me his arm.” 

“ I tell you he is a little liar,” said Theo again. “ He did not 
fall. 1 threw him down. He thrust himself into the midst of 
my familv affairs, a meddling little fool, and I caught hold of him 
and threw him out of the way. It is best that you should know 
the truth.” 

They stood all three in the middle of the bare road, the after- 
noon sun throwing its level light into their eyes, looking at each 
other, confronting each other, and standing apart. 

“ Theo,” said Lady Markland, “ I am sure you did not mean to 
hurt him. It was— an accident, after all. And Geoff, I am sure, 
never meant to interfere. But, indeed, you must not use such 
words of my boy.” 

“ What words would you like me to use ? He is the pest of 
my existence. I want you to understand this once for all. I can- 
not go on in this way, met at every turn by a rival, an antagonist. 
Tes, he is my rival in your heart, he is my opponent in every- 
thing. I cannot turn round at my own table, in my own house, 
without his little grinning face ’’-Here Theo stopped, with a 
laugh still wilder than his words. The startled faces of the 
mother and son, the glance they gave at each other like a mutual 
consultation, the glow of indignation that overcame Lady Mark- 
land’s paleness, were all apparent to him in a flash of meaning. 


384 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, 


“Oh, I know what you will say!” he cried. “It is not my 
house; it is Geoff’s. A woman lias no right to subject her hus- 
band to such a liumiliation. Get your things together, Frances, 
and come with me to my own house. I am in a false position 
here. I will bear it no longer. Let him have what is his right. 
I am resolved that he and 1 shall not sleep again under the same 
roof.” 

“ Theo, you cannot mean what you say. You can’t be so — If 
Geoff has done anything wrong, he will beg your pardon. Oh, 
what is it, what is it ? ” She did not ask her son for his version 
of the story with her lips, but she did with her eyes, which ex- 
asperated Theo more and more. 

“ It does not matter what it is,” he said. “It is not any tem- 
porary business, to be got over with an apology. It is just this, 
that you won’t face what is inevitable. But it is inevitable. You 
must choose between him and me.” 

Geoff had been overwhelmed by this sudden storm. He was so 
young to play the hero’s part. He was not above crying when 
such a tempest burst upon him. and he had hard ado to keep 
back his tears. But when lie met his mother’s anguished, im- 
ploring look, Geoff felt in his little forlorn heart a courage which 
was more than man. “ Warrender,” he said, biting his lips to 
keep them from quivering,— “ Warrender, I say! As soon as the 
holidays are over, I — I’ll go to school. I’ll — be out of the way.” 

“Oh Geoff ! ” Lady Markland said, with a heart-rending cry. 

“It’s— it’s right enough, mamma; it’s— quite right. I’m too 
old. I’m too — Warrender, I’ll be going back to school in about 
six w’eeks.” Alas, the holiday's were jpst begun. “Won’t that 
do?” cried little Geoff, with horrible twitchings of his face, in- 
tended to keep back the tears. 

His mother went up to him, and kissed him passionately, and 
put him away with her hand. “ Go,” she said. “ Geoff, go, and 
wait for me in your room. We must talk — alone; we must talk 
alone. Go. Go.” 

Geoff Avonld have given much to throw himself into her arms, 
to support and to be supported by her: but the child was moved 
beyond himself. He obeyed her without a word, turning l^is back 
upon the combat, though he would fain have stood by her in it. 
Warrender had taken no part in this; he had made no response 
to Geoff’s appeal. He was walking tip and down, with all the 
signs of impatience, pale wdlh passion and opposition. He 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN 


385 


paused, however, as the boy went away, a solitary, forlorn little 
figure stealing along the avenue in silence, too dutiful even to 
look back. Lady Markland stood, too, and looked after him, with 
a pang of compunction, of compassipn, of heart-yearning, which 
it would be impossible to put into words. Her boy ! who had 
been her chief, almost only companion for years; who was more 
dear — was he more dear? — than any one; who was her very own, 
all her own, with no feeling in his mind or experience in his little 
consciousness that was not all hers, — and this man bade her send 
him away, separate from her child: this — man. It is not safe for 
a union when one of the parties thinks of the other as that man. 
All at once a light had flashed up in Lady Markland’s heart. She 
had been made very soft, very submissive, by her marriage. She 
had married a young man, younger than herself. She had seemed 
to herself ever since to be asking pardon of him and of the world 
for doing so. But now his violence had called her back to her- 
self. She had not been too soft or submissive in the old days. 
She had been a woman with a marked character, not always 
yielding. The temporary seemed suddenly to disappear out of 
her life, and the original came back. She stood for a moment 
looking after her child, and then, being feeble of body, though 
waking up tosuch force of mind, she went to a bench which stood 
on the edge of the road, and sat down there. “ If this is as you 
say, it is better that we should understand each other,” sho said. 

Her tone had changed. From the anxiety to soften and smooth 
everything, the constant strain of deprecation and apology which 
had become habitual to her, she had suddenly emerged into a 
'composure which was ominous, which was almost tragic. Even 
the act of sitting down, which was due to her weakness, made her 
appear as if taking a high position, assuming an almost judicial 
place. She did not intend it so, but this was the effect it pro- 
duced upon Warrender, stinging him more deeply still. He felt 
that he was judged, that his wife had thrown off the yoke which 
he had made so heavy, and that his chance of bringing her back 
to her subjection, and of forcing her into the new and sudde de- 
cision which he called for, was small. This conviction increased 
his fury, but it also made him restrain the outward signs of it. 
He went after her, and stood in front of the bench of which she 
had made a sort of judicial throne. 

“ You arc right in that,” he said. “ Things have gone too far 
to return to their old level. I must have my house to myself and 


386 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


for that reason it must be my own. I wish you to come W'ith 
me to the Warren, — the children and you.” 

“ Your mother and your sisters are there,” she said, fixing upon 
him a steady look. 

“ What does that matter ? There is room, 1 hope, at all times 
for the master of the house.” 

“You ask me,” she said, “ to turn all my life upside down, to 
change my habits and arrangements, at a moment’s notice. But 
you have not told me why. Have you told me You have said 
that my little boy of twelve has offended you, and that you 
knocked him down. Is that why I must change my house and 
all my life ? ” 

The slow steadiness of her tone made him frantic; that, more 
than the deliberate way in which she was putting him in thewrong 

“ I have told you,” he cried, “ that I am in a false position al- 
together, and that I will not bear it any longer! You ought to see 
that I am in a false position. As for your little boy— of twelve” — 

“ What of him ? ” she asked, growing very pale, and rising 
again from her seat. 

“ Only this one thing, Frances: that you can’t serve God and 
mammon, you know; you can’t keep both. You must choose 
between him and me.” 

“Choose ?” She sat down again suddenly, as if her strength 
had failed her. “Choose! between Geoff, my little Geoff— my 
boy — my baby — Geoff” — 

There was a kind of ridicule in her voice, a ridicule which was 
tragic, which was full of passion, which sounded like a scoff at 
something preposterous, as well as an indignant protest. 

“Your scorn does not make it different. Yes, Geoff — wdio is 
all that: and me, — between him and me.” 

For a moment they gazed at each other, having arrived at that 
decisive point, in a duel of this kind, when neither antagonist 
can find a word more to say. Lady Markland was very pale. 
She had been brought in a moment from her ease and quiet, when 
she expected no harm, to wdiat might be the most momentous de- 
cision. She was still feeble, her nerves strained and weak from 
the long tension at which they had been held. She had clasped 
her hands together, and the fingers quivered. Her eyes seemed 
to grow larger and more luminous as she looked at him. “ Thco,’> 
she said, with a long breath. “Theo! do you know— what you 
are saying ? Do you mean — all that — all that ? ” 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


387 


He thought he was going to get an easy, an unlooked-for 
victory; he congratulated himself with a swift Hash of premature 
triumph that he had pushed matters to a crisis, that he had been 
so firm. Yes,” he cried, “ I mean it all. We can’t go on 
longer as we are. You must choose between him and me.” 

She kept looking at him, still without relaxing from that fixed 
gaze'. “ Do you know what you are asking ? ” she said again. 

“ That I should give up my child, — my fii’st-born child, my little 
delicate boy, who has never been parted from me. Was it ever 
heard of that a mother was asked to give up her child “? ” 

“ They have done it,” he said,— “ you must know that,— when 
a higher claim came in.” 

“ Is there any higher claim ? Every other is at our own choice, 
but this is nature. God made it. It cannot change. There may 
be other— other ”— she faltered, her voice grew choked,— “ but 
only one mother,” she said. 

“ Other— other ? ” he cried; “ what ? To me there has been 
but one, as you know. I have put all my choices iii one. God 
made it ? Has not God made you and me one ?— whom God has 
joined together ” — , 

“ Oh. Theo.” She got up and came towards him, holding out 
her hands. ” One; to bear each other’s burdens, to help each 
other: not to go against nature, jO abandon what is the first of 
of duties. Theo! oh, help me; do not make it impossible, do not 
rend me in vw'o! What can I say to you ? Theo! ” She tottered 
in her weakness; her limbs were not strong enough to support 
her. But Warrender made no forward step. He did not take 
the hands she held out to him. He had to be firm. It was now 
or never, he said to himself. 

“ If we are ever to live happily together the sacrifice must be 
made. I don’t want to hurt you, Frances. If I seem harsh, it is 
for our good, the good of both of us. Make up your mind. Can 
any one doubt what is your first duty ? It is to me. It is I that 
must settle what our life is to be. It is you who must yield and 
obey. Are you not my wife ? Spare yourself further pain 
and me,” he went on, with all the absolute and cruel sincerity of 
youth He made it up in his own mind that this was the right 
thing to do, and steeled himself to resist the appeal of her w^eak- 
ness, to see her flutter back to the hard bench, and drop down 
there, unsupported, unaided. It w^as for the best, it w^as for her 
good, to put things on a right footing at once and for always. 
After this, never a harsh word, never an opposition, inore. 

Her husband thys having her to himself, standing before her, 
magisterial, coldly setting down what her duty was, enforcing 
obedience,— he who little more than a year ago— She wavered 
back to her bare seat alone, and sat there looking up at him till 
the peroration came to an end. In these few minutes many 
things flew through Lady Markland’s thoughts, unspeakable of- 
fense, revolt against this unlovely duty presented to lier, a sudden 
fierce indignation against him who had thus thrust himself luto 
her life and claimed to command it. At that moment, after all 
the agitation he had made her suffer, and before the sacrifice he 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


388 

thus demanded of her, she could scarcely believe that she too had 
loved him, that she had been happy in his love. It seemed to her 
that he had forced himself upon her, taken advantage of her lone- 
liness, compelled her to put herself in his power. It had been 
all adoration, boundless devotion, help, and service. And now it 
was command. Oh, had he but said this before! Had he bidden 
her then choose between her child and him, before — And as 
she looked at him a wild ridicule added itself to those other 
thoughts. To see him standing making his speech, thinking he 
could coerce a woman like herself, thinking in his youthfidness 
that he could sway any woman’s heart like that, and cut oft the 
ties that vexed him, and settle everything for the good of both. 
Heaven! to see him lifting up his authoritative head, making his 
decision, expecting her to obey! Spare yourself — and me. That 
she should refuse did not enter into his mind. She might struggle 
for a time, but to what use ? Spare yourself — and me ! She could 
not help a faint smile, painful enough, bitter enough, curving her 

lips. ^ A 

“ You speak at your ease,” she cried, when his voice stopped. 

“ It is easy to make up one’s mind for another. What if 1 should 
refuse — to obey, as you say ? A wife’s obedience, since you ap- 
peal to that, is not like a servant’s obedience, nor a child’s. It 
must be within reason and within nature. Suppose that I should 

refuse ? ” . , • mi. 

He had grown cool and calm in the force of his authority, ihe 
crimson flashed to his face and the Are to his eye at her words. 

“ Refuse — and I have my alternative,” he cried. “ I will never 
enter your house again nor interfere in your concerns more.” 

Again they contemplated each other in a deadly pause, like an- 
tagonists before they close for the last struggle. Then Lady 
Markland spoke: — 

“ Theo, I have done all that a woman could do to please you, 
and satisfy you, — all, and more than all. I will not desert my 
little boy.” 

“ You prefer Geoff to me ? ” 

“There is no preferring; it is altogether different. I will not 
give up my child.” 

“ Then you give up your husband ? ” 

They looked at each other again, — she deadly pale, he crimson 
with passion, both quivering with the strain of this struggle; 
her eyes mutely refusing to yield, accepting the alternative, 
though she said no more. And not another word was said. He 
turned on his lieel, and walked back down the avenue, with quick, 
swinging steps, without ever turning his head. She watched him 
till he was out of sight, till he was out of hearing, till the gate 
swung behind him, and he was gone. She did not know' liow she 
was to get back to the house, over that long stretch of road, ^yith- 
out any one to help her, and thought with a sickening and failing 
of her heart of the long w'ay. But in this great, sudden, unlooked- 
for revolution of her life she felt no weakness nor failing. The 
revulsion was all the greater after the self-restraint. For the 
first time after so long an interval she was again herself. 


LII. 


That night Lady Markland did not close her eyes. The strength 
of resistance, of indignation, of self-assertion, failed her, as was 
inevitable, in the long and slow hours, during which she looked 
out, at first with a certainty, then with a hope, that Theo would 
come back. He must come back, she said to herself, even if all 
were over, which seemed impossible, impossible! — all in an hour 
or two, in one afternoon , when she thought no evil — still the 
most prosaic of considerations, the least important, his clothes, 
if nothing more, must bring him back. She went on saying this 
to herself, till from a half scorn which was in it at first it came to 
a kind of despair. He must come back, at all events, for his 
clothes! She could scarcely bear Geoff during the afternoon, 
though it was for him all this misery was^ She never could, nor 
would, give up her child, but his society was intolerable to her 
just then ; and she felt that if Theo came and found them together 
he might think — he would have a certain right to think — It was a 
relief to her when at last Geoff went to bed, all his questions 
silenced, chilled, terrified, yet still heroically restraining himself, 
and making up his mind that he was to be sent away. After this 
she felt a kind of relief, a freedom in being left to herself, in wan- 
dering about the rooms and looking out in succession at every 
window that commanded the avenue. When the hour came to 
shut up the house she gave the butler an elaborate explanation: 
how Mr. Warrender had been obliged to return to the Warren 
about some business; how it was possible that he might not come 
back that night; in fact, she did not expect him that night; but 
still he might return. It was not necessary that any one should 
sit up, — oh, no, not necessary at all. She should hear him if he 
came, or he could let himself in. “ But I really do not expect 
him to night. He has — business,” she said, with a smile, which 
the butler thought not all like my lady. She was not given to 
explanations in an ordinary way. She was very kind and consid- 
erate; but she was always a great lady, and not expansive to her 


.590 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


servants. She smiled in a strange, conciliatory way, as if begging 
him to believe her, and explained, to make it all right. The 
butler was not deceived. When was any butler ever deceived by 
such pretences ? hie knew better, — he knew that something had 
happened. He told the company down-stairs that he made no 
doubt that there had been a row, and most likely about Master 
Geoff, and that they might make up their mind') to see rare 
changes. They were all making their comments upon this in 
the servants’ hall, while Lady Markland, standing at the win- 
dow, looked out with a sort of desperation, shaping the figure 
of Theo a hundred times in the distance, scarcely able to 
restrain the impulse to go out and look for him; saying to her- 
self, no longer scornfully, but with the profoundest tragic gravity, 
that he must come back, if only for his clothes! It was a dim 
summer night, the sky veiled with clouds, and after midnight 
fitfully lit by the gleam of a waning moon. She went from win- 
dow to window noiselessly, thinking that now one, now another, 
had the most perfect command of the avenue; hearing a hundred 
sounds of footsteps, even of distant wheels and horses’ hoofs, 
which seemed to beat upon the ground far off, and never came 
any nearer. Then when the dawn began to be blue in the sky, 
she threw herself upon her bed and hid her face, knowing that 
all was over, and that he would come back no more. 

Scarcely less was the consternation in the Warren when Theo, 
pale and silent, wrapped in silence as in a cloak, making no reply 
to the questions asked, ordering his old room to be made ready 
without any explanations, came back to the already excited house. 
Dick and Chatty and all their affairs were forgotten in the extra- 
©rdinary new event. “ Oh, Theo, what has happened,” Mrs. 
Warrender cried, “ what has happened ? Are you not going 
home ? ” 

“ This is my home, I suppose,” he said, “ unless you have any 
objections,” which closed her mouth. She thought there must 
have been a quarrel, and that Lady Markland had resented Theo’s 
treatment of Geoff, which his mother immediately began to 
justify to herself; saying that of course he did not mean to hurt 
the child, but that a person put in charge of the children of an- 
other, in any case, must have some power of correcting them 
when they want correction with great wonder and indignation 
at his wife, yet an obstinate counter-question in her mind if any 
one had corrected Theo so, when he was a boy — She did all she 


A COUNTBY GEJS^TLEMAN, 


391 


could to urge him to return, sitting up till very late, keeping the 
groom awake for possible orders. ‘‘Frances will be very anx- 
ious,” she said to her son. “She has no reason to be anxious; 
she knows Avhere I am,” “Oh, Theo, don’t let it come to a 
quarrel,” Mrs. Warrender urged imploringly, with tears in her 
eyes. Her attitude put him in mind of his wife’s attitude as she 
stood holding out her hands, and was intolerable to him. “ Good- 
night, mother. I am going to bed,” he said. Mrs. Warrender 
was as restless as Lady Markland. She had come and listened to 
his breathing outside his door, and seen that his light was out, 
and that he had actually gone to bed, as he said, before she would 
allow herself to be convinced. It was a quarrel, then; and what 
was to come of it, — what was to come of it ? Lady Markland 
was very yielding and gentle, but Theo! Theo was not yielding. 
Mrs. Warrender, too, lay down when it was nearly morning, as 
miserable as could be. 

And yet none of them, not even the chief actors, who were both 
at the pitch of desperation, really believed that what this meant 
was a breach which should last for years, Even they did not be- 
lieve it in their hearts. That things should not all come right 
was incredible. But as a matter of fact they did not come right. 
Lady Markland was not by nature the yielding and anxious 
woman which for this year of troubled wedlock she had appeared; 
and everybody knew that Theo was neither persuadable nor 
reasonable, but had the hottest temper, the most rigid will, of his 
own, and that ingenuity in finding himself in the right which 
gives a fatal character to every quarrel. Lady Markland was 
willing to make any concession but the one which he required, the 
abandonment of Geoff. But he would make no concession; he 
stood upon his rights. With all the fervor and absolutism of in- 
experience he stood fast. No! nothing less than everything, 
nothing but entire submission, nothing but obedience. Alarmed 
and anxious friends gathered to the fray, as was inevitable, and 
everything was made worse. The result was that within a few 
weeks Theo Warrender had gone off with a burning sense of iii- 
jury and wrong, to travel he did not much care where, to forget 
himself he did not much care how; and Lady Markland, feeling 
as if she had awakened suddenly from a strange dream, a dream 
full of fever and unrest, of fugitive happiness but lasting trouble, 
came to herself all alone, with the two little babies, in a strange 
solitude which was no longer natural, and with Geoff. She had 


392 


A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 


chosen, who could say wrongly ? — and yet in a way which set 
Jrrong all the circumstances of her life. 

This was how for the moment her second venture came to an 
end. Theo went forth upon the world for that wander-year in 
which so much of the superfluous vigor of life is often expended, 
which it would liaye been so well for everybody if he had taken 
before, and stormed about the world for a time, no one knowing 
what volcanoes were exploding in his soul. How much he 
gathered of better wisdom it is not within the limits of this his- 
to'ry to say. 

The happy ones were Dick and Chatty, who began their life 
together as if there had been no cloud upon it. He had fully 
lived out his wander-year, and had paid dearly for the follies, 
which had been done with no evil meaning on his part, but in all 
honor and good intention, bitterly foolish though they were. 
And perhaps he never was very wise, nor rose above the pos- 
sibility of being taken in, which is a peculiarity of many generous 
spirits. But why should we say they were the happy ones ? The 
really happy ones were Minnie and her Eustace, who never felt 
themselves to be in the wrong, or were anything less than the reg- 
ulators of everybody’s life and manners wherever they went. It 
was Mrs. Eustace Thynne’s conviction to the last that all the mis- 
fortunes which temporarily befell her sister were owing to the 
fact that she herself was not on the spot to regulate affairs ; and 
that Theo, if he had taken her advice, would never have placed 
himself in the way of the trouble which had overwhelmed his 
ife. 


2 


Baany a family has been raised by the gentiine philantrophy o| 
jtnoaem progress and of modern opportunities. But ma«ny people da 
not avail of them. They jog along in their old ways until are 
etndk fast in a mire of hopeless dirt. Friends desert them, fc^they 
have already deserted themselves by neglecting their own beet saterests. 
Out of the dirt of Mtchen, or Lall or parlor, any house can be quickly 
fcsnnght by the nseof Sapolio which is sold by all grocers at lOo. a cakOi 

sMal solutions 

{Solutions Societies). 

J3 y ]Vr. Gr O D I IST , 

FounOer of fhe Familist^re at Guise; Prominent Leader of Industries in 
France and Belgium ; Member of the National Assembly. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BT 

MARIE HOWLAND. 


1 voL, l2mo, mu stratedy c loth giSt, $1.50. 

An admirable English translation of M. Godin’s statement of the 
course of study which led him to conceive the Social Palace at Guise, 
France. There is no question that this publication will mark an era 
in the growth of the labor question. It should serve as the manual for 
organized labor in its present contest, since its teachings will as surely 
lead to the destruction of the wages system as the abolition movement 
lead to that of chattel slavery. 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 and 10 Vesey Street, NEW YORK. 



THE BEET 

wiSHiNS zmmms, 

EVER INVENTED. 
Lacy, Harried ©if 
SiDgle» Kich or Poor, 
^ousebieeping or Sosi«rd« 
ings, will bo witboiit it 
airier testing its utilityo- 
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746 Beaton’s Bargain, Mrs, Alexander.. 20 
74? Social Solutions, No. 2, by Howiund.lU 
748 Our Roman Palace, by Benj iniin...2U 
740 Mayor of Casterbridge, by Hardy. .20 

750 Somebody s Story, by Hngn Conway.lO 

751 IvingArtUur, by iViiss Mulock 20 

752 S-.‘t in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay — 20 
754 Social Sol utious, No. 4, by Howland.lO 
751 A Modem Midas, by Maurice Jokai.20 


755 A Fallen Idol, by F. Anstey 20 

75(5 Conspiracy, by Adam Badeau. . . .25 

757 Doris’ Fortune, by F. Warden 10 

753 Cynic Fortune, by D. C. Murray, .,10 
759 P'oul Play, by Chas. Reade 20 

730 Fair Women, by Mrs. Forrester. . . .20 

731 Count of Monte Ciisto, Part I., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II., by 

Alexandre Dumas 20 

762 Soci il Solutions, No. 4, by Huwland.l0 

763 Moths, by Ouida 20 

7(54 A Fair Mystery, by Bertha M. Clay.20 
765 Social Solutions, No. 5, by Howland.lO 

76f) Vixen, by Miss Braddon .20 

7(57 Kidnapped, by R. L. Stevenson — 20 


768 The Strange <3ase of Dr. Jck}'!! and 

Mr. Hyde, by R. L, Stevenson. .10 

769 Prince Otto, by R. L. Stevenson. . .10 

770 The Dynamiter, byR. L. Stevenson.20 

771 The Old Mam’seile’s Secret, by B. 

Marlitt 20 

772 Mysteries of Paris, l\irt I., by Sne.20 

772 Myster.nisof Paris, Part II., by Sue.20 

773 Put Yourself in His Place, by Reade. 20 

774 Social Solutions, No. (5, by Howland.lO 

775 The Three Guardsmen, byDnmas.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part I., by Sue.20 

776 The Wandering Jew, Part II., by Suc.20 

777 A Second Life, by Mrs. Alexander.20 

773 Social Solutions, No. 7, byHowlaiid.il) 
779 My Friend Jim, by W. E. Norris.. 10 
7'^0 Bad to Beat, by Hawley Smart 10 

781 Betty’s Visions, by Broughton 15 

782 Social Solutions, No. 8, by Howland.lO 

783 The Octoroon, by Miss Braddon.... 20 

784 Les Miserables, Part I., by Hugo. .20 
784 Les Miserables, Part II., by Hugo. 20 

784 Les Miserables, Part III., by Hugo. 20 

785 Social Solutions, No. 9, by Howland.lO 

786 Twenty Years After, by Dumas. .. .20 

787 A Wicked Girl, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 

788 Social Solutions, No. 10. by Howland.lO 
7tS9 Charles O’Malley, P’t I , by Lever. 20 

789 Charles O’Malley, P't II., by Lever. 20 

790 Othmar, by Ouida 20 

791 Social Solutions,No.ll.by Howland.lO 

792 Her Week’s Amusement, by ‘‘The 

Duchess” 10 

793 New Arabian Nights, by Stevenson.20 
791 Tom Burke of Ours, P’t I , by Lever.20 
791 Tom Burke of Ours, P'tII.,byI.ever.20 

795 Social Solutions.No 12, byHowland.lO 

796 Property in Land, by Henry Georg/'.15 

797 A Phantom Lover, by Vernon Lee. 10 


798 The Prince of the Hundred Soups, 

by Vernon Lee lO 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow 7 by Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

800 Th urns and Orange Blossoms, by 

B. M. Clay 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil, by Clay. 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 10 

803 Love’s Warfare, by B. M. Clay ... .10 

804 Madolin's Lover, by B. M. Clay 20 

805 A House Party, by Ouida 10 

8( 6 From Out the Gloom, by Clay 20 

807 Which Loved Him Best? by Olay.. 10 

808 A True Magdalen, by B. M. Cluy..20 

809 3’he Sin of a Lifetime, by Clay 20 

810 Prince Charlie's Daughter, bv Ciay.lO 

811 A Golden Heart, by B M. Clay. ...10 
8J2 Wife in Name Only, by B. M. Clay.20 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

814 Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 
81^ A Woman’s Error, by B. M. Ciay..20 
8I6 The Broken Seal, ^by Dora Ilus.seli.20 
bl7 The Cruise of the Black I’rince, by 

Commandt r Lovett^Cameron ... .20 

818 Once Again, by Mrs. Porre.-tcr.., .20 

819 Treasure Island, by Sievenson 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding, by Carkton.lO 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake, by Wil- 

liam Carleton 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral, by 

William Carleton 10 

823 The Midnight Mass, by Caileton. ..10 

824 Phil Purcek by William Carleton. 10 

825 An Irish Oath, by Carleton 10 

826 G >iBg to Maynooih, bv Carleton. .,10 
82T Phelim O’Toole’s Counship, by 

William Carleton 10 

828 Dominick the Poor Scholar, by 

William Carleton 10 

820 Neal Malot.c. by William Carleton.. 10 

830 Twilight Club Tracts, by Wingate. 20 

831 Tiic Son of His Fathcr.by Oliphant.20 
Jsl2 Sir Percival, by J. H. Sh<*rthouse,.10 

833 A Voyage to the Cape, by llnsvell. .20 

834 Jack’s CiUirtship, by Russell 20 

835 A Sailor's Sweetheart, by Russell. .20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head, by Russell.. .20 
857 M rked ‘‘In Haste,” by Roosevelt. .20 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

839 -The Guilty River, by Collins 10 

840 By Woman’s Wit, by Alex^mder. , ..20 
8ll Dr. Cupid, by Hhcda Broughton. ..20 

842 The World Went Very Well Then, 

by Walter Besant 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady, by Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

8(1 Dolores, by Mrs. Forrester 20 

845 I Have Lived and Loved, by Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

846 An Algonquin Maiden, by Adams. .20 

847 The Ho’y Rose, by Walter Th sant.lO 

848 She, by H. Rider Haggard . . .20 

849 Handy Andy, by Samuel Lover. ...20 

850 My Hero, by Mrs. Forrester 20 


Any of the above can be obtained from all booksellers and newsdealers, or will bo 
sent free by mail, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

Nos. 14 AND 16 Vesf.y Street, New York. 


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